HE  TENTS  OF  GRACE  I  * 


A  TRAGEDY 


ft*       t$»       ff»       t$»       cf»       r$/» 
^f  -ir  >r  -r  -r  -r 


fSW  fff/t  W/» 


HARRY   :DWIN  MARTIN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


/** 


The  Tents  of  Grace 


And  Four  Short  Stories 


HARRY  EDWIN  MARTIN 


CINCINNATI : 
PRESS  OF  JENNINGS  AND  GRAHAM 


Copyright,  IQIO, 

by 
HARRY  EDWIN  MARTIN 


YOU,  DEAR  MOTHER, 

I  DEDICATE  THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME,  FILLED 
WITH  THE  CHILDREN  OF  MY  YOUTH- 
FUL  BRAIN,    IN    TOKEN    OF    MY 
LOVE  AND  HONOR  THROUGH 
ALL  THE  YESTER-YEARS 
AND  ALL  THE  DAYS 
TO  BE. 


Table  of  Contents 
* 

PREFACE, 9 

THE  TENTS  OF  GRACE— A  Tragedy,     n 

THE  VOICE  IN  THE  PRIMITIVE- 
STORY, s1 

AFTER  MANY  YEARS— STORY,  .  .       59 
THE  MONSTER— STORY, 79 

"THE  PORT  OF  THE  UNEXPECTED" 
— STORY, 85 


"  Whoever  thinks  a  faultless  piece  to  see, 
Thinks  what  ne'er  was,  nor  is,  nor  e'er  shall  be." 

"Blame  where  you  must,  be  candid  where  you  can, 
And  be  each  critic  the  good-natured  man." 


PREFACE 


MAN'S  inhumanity  to  man  has  often  traced 
a  border  of  black  around  many  of  the  fairest 
pages  in  the  annals  of  universal  history. 
The  fields  are  green,  the  flowers  bloom,  the 
birds  sing,  but  man  —  man  alone  is  vile. 
Perhaps  we  might  prefer  to  record  only 
those  events  which  show  forth  the  beauti- 
ful, the  noble,  the  true;  but  it  is  only  in 
the  realm  of  fancy  that  all  things  may  take 
a  happy  course,  and  just  so  long  as  man  is 
man  the  historian  must  ever  report  the  bit- 
ter with  the  sweet,  the  evil  with  the  good. 

Wherefore  it  has  seemed  good  to  the 
author  of  this  little  volume  to  present  to 
the  public  the  story,  forgotten  save  by  a 
few,  of  the  founding,  the  life,  and  the  cul- 
minating tragedy  of  old  Gnadenhiitten. 

It  is  not  questioned  that  many,  many  tales 
might  be  found  concerning  the  early  days 
when  the  stalwart  pioneers  were  blazing  a 
trail  through  the  forests  of  Ohio,  yet  it  is 
doubtful  whether  any  could  be  brought  for- 


Preface 

ward  which  would  equal  in  human  interest 
and  simple  pathos  this  incident  of  the  mar- 
tyrdom of  the  Moravian  Indians  in  the 
"Tents  of  Grace." 

Each  of  the  stories  that  go  to  make  up 
the  second  part  of  this  book  has  been  pub- 
lished before,  primarily  for  a  small  circle 
of  readers.  But  the  varied  criticisms  have 
been  so  kind  and  the  praise  so  sincere  that 
all  have  been  deemed  worthy  of  a  wider 
circulation. 

The  author  does  not  doubt  that  you  who 
read  may  sometimes  find  that  which  is 
prosy,  and  yet  he  hopes  here  and  there  you 
may  come  upon  some  bits  of  honest  pathos, 
touches  of  human  interest,  and  a  smatter- 
ing of  art. 

That  you  may  find  herein  a  story  of  an 
almost  forgotten  historical  incident  which 
proves  to  be  enlightening  and  interesting, 
and  that  you  may  further  find  the  four  short 
stories  to  be  of  some  interest  and  delight,  is 
the  sincere  wish  of  the  author. 

HARRY  EDWIN  MARTIN. 

Scio  College,  Scio,  Ohio. 
September  29,  igio. 

10 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

A  Tragedy 

RESTING  peacefully  in  the  scenic  Tuscara- 
was  Valley,  in  Ohio,  is  the  town  of  Gnaden- 
hutten.  A  stranger  visiting  the  village  will 
note  the  beautiful  site;  the  wide,  shaded 
streets ;  the  pretty,  flower-dotted  lawns ;  the 
neat  homes ;  and  the  thrifty,  genial  inhabit- 
ants and  their  tranquillity ;  but  unless  he  is 
very  familiar  with  the  early  history  of  Ohio 
he  utterly  fails  to  comprehend  why  the  town 
is  called  Gnadenhutten,  nor  will  he  realize 
that  this  is  an  historic,  almost  sacred,  spot. 
Here,  where  peace  and  happiness  now  pre- 
dominate, one  of  the  saddest  tragedies  of 
all  history  occurred — a  tragedy  of  pathos 
unsurpassed  and  involving  Christian  forti- 
tude akin  to  martyrdom.  Here  at  the  clos- 
ing of  the  eighteenth  century  a  dream  of 
Christian  empire  came  true  for  half  a  score 
of  years — and  then  ended  in  annihilation. 

II 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

It  was  late  in  the  summer  of  the  year  1772 
that  two  companies  of  Moravian  missiona- 
ries and  their  Indian  followers,  after  many 
and  severe  vicissitudes,  arrived  upon  the 
banks  of  the  Tuscarawas  River — then 
known  as  the  Muskingum.  They  came 
from  Friedenshuetten,  on  the  Susquehanna 
River,  and  from  Friedenstadt,  in  the  Alle- 
gheny region,  both  within  the  bounds  of 
Pennsylvania,  and  they  migrated  to  the  new 
Ohio  country,  hoping  there  to  make  homes 
which  would  be  free  from  the  encroach- 
ments of  the  unfriendly  white  man.  The 
first  company  to  arrive,  under  the  leadership 
of  the  missionaries,  David  Zeisberger  and 
John  Heckewelder,  stopped  about  two  miles 
south  of  the  present  city  of  New  Philadel- 
phia and  founded  the  village  Schonbrunn, 
or  "Beautiful  Spring'"  named  thus  because 
of  the  small  lake  which  was  nearby.  By 
October  9,  1772,  the  second  company  had 
reached  the  valley  and  farther  down  the 
river  had  begun  the  building  of  a  town 
which  the  builders  aptly  christened  Gnaden- 
hutten,  or  "Tents  of  Grace." 

The   Tuscarawas   Valley   was    an    ideal 

12 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

place  for  the  founding  of  such  a  religious 
empire  as  the  devout  missionaries  planned. 
It  was  then  inhabited  almost  solely  by  the 
Delaware  tribe,  who  will  be  remembered  as 
among  the  clans  of  red  men  with  whom 
William  Penn  made  his  famous  peace  treaty 
in  the  long  ago.  These  peaceful  Indians, 
feeling  their  inability  to  check  the  westward 
advance  of  white  civilization,  had  moved 
from  Penn's  colony  several  years  before  and 
had  established  their  headquarters  in  the 
beautiful  Tuscarawas  Valley.  One  of  the 
leading  Delaware  villages,  but  ten  miles  be- 
low Gnadenhutten,  was  King  Newcomer's 
Town,  situated  where  now  stands  the  town 
of  almost  similar  name.  Other  than  these 
friendly  neighbors,  who  had  invited  the 
Moravians  to  dwell  in  the  valley,  the  Chris- 
tians found  everything  congenial  and  de- 
lightful. Nature  was  here  prodigal  of  all 
her  stores.  Fine  woodlands  covered  many 
a  hill  and  hollow,  and  great  fertile  fields 
stretched  away  on  every  side.  Forest  and 
field  abounded  in  game  of  numerous  kinds, 
and  the  little  river  was  full  of  fishes  of  va- 
rious sizes.  The  climate  was  excellent — 

13 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

warm  in  summer  and  mild  in  winter — and 
the  air  was  pure  and  wholesome. 

The  company  founding  the  "Tents  of 
Grace"  was  under  the  leadership  of  Joshua, 
a  Mohican  elder,  and  was  composed  mainly 
of  Mohican  and  Delaware  Indians,  all  of 
whom  had  embraced  Christianity.  The  only 
white  persons  dwelling  here  were  two  or 
three  teachers  and  their  families.  Sur- 
rounded by  such  peaceable  neighbors  and 
with  such  delightful  natural  environments 
Gnadenhiitten  soon  became  a  pleasant  and 
prosperous  hamlet.  It  was  well  laid  out, 
but  had  only  one  principal  street,  which  was 
long,  wide,  and  straight.  The  houses  and 
chapel,  as  in  all  of  the  new  settlements,  were 
built  of  rough  and  hewn  logs.  Each  of  the 
homes  contained  only  one  room,  but  usually 
had  an  attic  overhead  and  a  cellar  under- 
neath, and  was  enclosed  by  a  picket  fence. 
The  crude  doors  swung  on  wooden  hinges, 
the  small  windows  were  made  of  greased 
paper,  the  rustic  furniture  was  hand-made, 
and  through  a  hole  in  each  door  hung  the 
necessary  latchstring  as  a  token  of  welcome 
to  friend  or  stranger.  None  but  professing 

H 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

Christians  were  allowed  to  make  their 
homes  here,  yet  notwithstanding  this  ban 
the  population  steadily  increased ;  for  many 
of  the  neighboring  Indians  buried  the  battle- 
ax,  accepted  the  white  man's  religion,  and 
became  men,  not  savages. 

In  this  little  kingdom  so  far  from  Eastern 
civilization,  industry  and  order  were  neces- 
sary. Under  these  two  guiding  principles 
the  inhabitants  became  well-to-do  farmers 
with  now  and  then  a  proficient  tradesman. 
Joshua,  the  leader,  was  an  expert  cooper 
and  canoe-maker.  The  wide  and  fertile 
bottoms  on  either  side  of  the  river  gave 
ample  opportunity  for  labor,  and  visitors 
from  Pennsylvania  and  from  the  savage 
tribes  living  farther  north  and  west  mar- 
veled at  the  sight  of  the  large,  waving  fields 
of  grain,  the  patches  of  vegetables,  and  the 
hills  dotted  with  cattle  and  poultry.  In- 
deed, civilization  had  seemingly  let  down 
her  mantle  here  in  the  blossoming  wilder- 
ness, and  Christianity  had  leavened  the  sav- 
age heart. 

Generosity  and  kindness  were  also 
marked  characteristics  that  classed  the  Mo- 

15 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

ravians  wholly  apart  from  the  other  Indians. 
Whenever  possible  the  red  men  from  afar 
would  journey  to  Gnadenhiitten  in  order  to 
be  recipients  of  the  kindness  and  the  gifts 
of  its  inhabitants.  All  visitors  were  treated 
with  Christian  courtesy,  and  food  in  abun- 
dance was  offered  to  them.  And  oftentimes 
the  Moravians  gladly  ransomed  prisoners 
when  their  savage  captors  passed  through 
the  town  on  their  return  from  a  marauding 
expedition  along  the  frontier. 

These  simple  red  men  were  earnest  and 
sincere  in  their  religious  zeal.  Each  day 
the  bell  on  the  mission  church  called  the 
people  to  prayer,  and  while  the  men  and 
boys  were  busy  in  the  fields,  hunted  game, 
or  fished,  and  while  the  women  did  their 
household  duties  or  assisted  the  men,  the 
children  were  being  taught  by  their  faithful 
white  teachers  to  read,  to  write,  and  to 
honor  God  in  all  things.  The  government 
of  the  village,  it  might  here  be  said,  was  ad- 
ministered by  the  missionaries  and  their 
helpers  who  were  selected  from  among  the 
more  educated  of  the  Indians.  Questions  of 
great  moment,  of  course,  were  always  sub- 

16 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

mitted  to  the  people.  At  all  times,  let  it  be 
known,  the  Bible  was  the  great  statute  book 
of  the  "Tents  of  Grace." 

Such,  indeed,  was  the  daily  life  of  the 
meek  Moravian  Indians.  As  we  look  upon 
the  Indian  of  yesterday  all  of  this  seems  one 
vast  Utopian  dream.  But  the  facts  of  his- 
tory— immutable  as  they  are — prove  it  all 
a  reality.  Under  the  influence  of  Christian- 
ity, guided  by  their  white  brethren,  these 
wild  men  of  the  forest  put  aside  the  toma- 
hawk, learned  to  forego  revenge,  and  left 
off  unchastity  and  drunkenness  to  become 
obedient,  honest,  and  industrious  toilers. 
As  we  give  thought  to  them  and  their  tragic 
story  we  should  venerate  them  not  as  sav- 
ages, but  as  civilized  men,  faithful  and  un- 
affected in  their  Christian  beliefs.  We 
should  honor  them  further  because  reflect- 
ing from  their  lives  are  lights  that  even  to 
this  day  have  not  been  extinguished.  They 
lived  and  they  perished  as  Christian  men. 

It  is  an  interesting  fact  that  the  first  white 
child  born  in  Ohio  was  John  Lewis  Roth, 
who  opened  his  eyes  to  the  light  of  day  on 
the  4th  of  July,  1772,  at  Gnadenhiitten. 

2  17 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

Historians  have  differed  as  to  who  really 
was  the  first  white  child  born  within  the 
bounds  of  Ohio,  but  no  authentic  record  of 
a  birth  previous  to  this  date  has  so  far  been 
found.  The  right  of  Roth  to  be  Ohio's  first 
son  is  found  in  the  official  diary  of  the 
Gnadenhiitten  mission,  now  preserved  in 
the  archives  of  the  Moravian  Church  at 
Bethlehem,  Pennsylvania,  which  reads : 
"July  4,  1773.  To-day  God  gave  to  Brother 
and  Sister  Roth  a  young  son.  He  was  bap- 
tized into  the  death  of  Jesus,  and  named 
John  Lewis,  on  the  5th  instant,  by  Brother 
David  Zeisberger." 

The  opening  of  the  Revolution  marked 
the  beginning  of  the  hardships  of  the  mis- 
sion town.  These  afflictions,  however, 
proved  to  be  only  the  foreboding  shadows 
of  the  crisis — the  cataclysm.  The  year  of 
1775  had  been  a  most  prosperous  one,  both 
in  a  spiritual  and  in  a  temporal  sense ;  but 
by  1777  progress  in  the  development  and 
expansion  of  all  the  mission  towns  along 
the  Tuscarawas  Valley  had  come  to  a  halt. 
The  Christian  Indians  and  missionaries  be- 
ing opposed  to  war,  thinking  it  wrong,  re- 

18 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

mained  neutral.  In  so  doing  they,  perhaps 
unknowingly,  were  the  silent  allies  of  the 
Americans,  because  their  peaceful  attitude 
influenced  a  great  part  of  the  Delaware 
tribe  to  refrain  from  taking  the  warpath  in 
behalf  of  the  English.  The  Detroit  com- 
mandant and  his  faithful  accomplices,  the 
renegades  and  savage  chiefs,  did  all  in  their 
power  to  persuade,  and  afterwards  to  force, 
the  entire  Delaware  tribe  to  enter  the  serv- 
ice of  England,  but  failed. 

Gnadenhiitten  lay  on  the  main  trail  be- 
tween the  British  headquarters  at  Detroit 
and  the  American  post  at  Fort  Pitt,  which 
made  it  a  very  desirable  vantage-ground  for 
the  English  forces,  if  the  aid  of  its  inhab- 
itants could  be  secured.  Several  of  the  con- 
verts did  yield  to  persuasion  and  joined  the 
warring  clans,  but  the  great  number  of  the 
Christian  red  men  were  not  moved  by  the 
enticements  of  those  who  would  have  the 
Moravians  go  back  to  barbarism  in  order 
that  they  themselves  might  be  amply  re- 
warded by  the  Red  Coats  of  Detroit.  Plots 
were  then  laid  to  force  the  Christians  to 
array  themselves  under  the  Cross  of  St. 

19 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

George ;  but  through  all  intrigues  and  plots 
they  continued  steadfast.  They  neither 
took  up  the  battle-club  nor  spilled  the  blood 
of  any  man.  Content  to  worship  God  and 
treat  all  men  as  brethren,  they  went  about 
their  daily  tasks,  patient  in  their  persecu- 
tions and  all  the  while  wholly  unthoughtful 
of  what  these  plots  and  tricks  of  coercion 
augured. 

In  August,  1781,  a  band  of  about  three 
hundred  savages,  flying  the  English  ensign 
and  commanded  by  the  renegade  Elliott  and 
a  Wyandot  chief,  Pomoacan  or  Half  King 
by  name,  entered  the  Tuscarawas  Valley 
with  the  express  purpose  of  removing  the 
obnoxious  Christians.  When  near  Salem,  a 
mission  town  founded  shortly  after  the 
building  of  the  "Tents  of  Grace,"  the  Half 
King  sent  a  message  to  the  Christian  In- 
dians, assuring  them  of  his  friendship  and 
asking  which  of  their  three  settlements 
would  be  most  convenient  for  a  council. 
Gnadenhiitten  was  deemed  the  most  suit- 
able, and,  acting  accordingly,  on  August 
nth  the  savages  encamped  on  the  west 
side  of  that  hamlet.  Within  a  few  days  a 

2O 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

meeting  was  held,  at  which  the  Wyandot 
chief  advised  a  speedy  removal,  and  in  the 
course  of  his  address,  as  reported,  we  find 
these  words:  "I  am  much  concerned  on 
your  account,  seeing  that  you  live  in  a  dan- 
gerous spot.  Two  powerful,  angry,  and 
merciless  gods  stand  ready,  opening  their 
jaws  wide  against  each  other;  you  are  be- 
tween both  and  thus  in  danger  of  being  de- 
voured and  ground  to  powder  by  the  teeth 
of  either  one  or  the  other,  or  of  both.  It 
is,  therefore,  not  advisable  for  you  to  stay 
here  any  longer." 

The  missionaries  courteously  replied  to 
this  speech,  but  with  their  followers  de- 
clined to  leave  their  pleasant  homes  until 
they  thought  it  more  expedient.  On  hear- 
ing this  the  majority  of  the  savages  evinced 
a  willingness  to  depart,  but  the  renegade 
and  his  two  English  comrades  persuaded 
them  to  continue  faithful  to  the  Detroit 
commandant  and  to  help  remove  the  Chris- 
tians as  soon  as  conditions  were  favorable. 
The  days  slipped  by  until  September  came, 
when  it  unfortunately  happened  that  two 
Moravian  Indians,  whom  the  missionaries 

21 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

had  sent  to  Pittsburgh  with  information 
concerning  their  precarious  situation,  were 
captured  by  the  savages.  This  event  was 
enlarged  upon  by  Elliott  as  the  conclusive 
proof  of  his  contentions,  that  the  Moravian 
Indians  were  friendly  to  the  rebelling  colo- 
nists, and  that  the  missionaries  were  Ameri- 
can spies.  This  gave  things  a  turn.  Half 
King  wavered  in  his  friendliness  towards 
the  Christian  red  men,  and  another  meeting 
of  the  leaders  of  both  parties  was  called. 
Still  the  Moravians  persisted  in  their  un- 
willingness to  desert  their  settlements.  The 
intruders  insisted  that  this  must  not  be. 
The  council  broke  up  in  confusion.  The 
missionaries  were  seized  and  made  pris- 
oners, and  the  greedy  savages  began  plun- 
dering the  village. 

By  September  loth  the  outrages  of  the 
pillagers  had  become  so  distressing  that  the 
Moravians  consented  to  abandon  their 
homes  and  do  the  bidding  of  their  perse- 
cutors. On  the  following  day  with  their 
teachers  they  were  ruthlessly  driven  toward 
Detroit.  With  heavy  hearts  and  intense 
suffering  the  captives  trudged  on  for  one 

22 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

hundred  and  twenty-four  miles  through  the 
trackless  wilderness  until  Sandusky  was 
reached.  Here  the  Christian  Indians  were 
liberated  and  warned  with  many  threats  not 
to  wander  back  to  their  homes,  while  their 
captors  moved  on  to  Detroit,  taking  with 
them  the  missionaries,  whom  the  savages 
deemed  dangerous  should  they  be  permitted 
to  remain  with  their  followers. 

This  was  a  sad  exile.  The  Moravians 
had  left  behind  three  pleasant  settlements — 
Gnadenhutten,  Schonbrunn,  and  Salem — 
their  well-kept  homes,  their  churches  and 
schools,  their  cattle  and  poultry  wandering 
in  the  fields,  an  abundance  of  corn  in  store 
and  three  hundred  acres  of  grain  ripening 
in  the  bottoms,  great  patches  of  vegetables, 
and  numerous  valuables  that  had  been  hid- 
den away  in  the  cabins.  Their  books  and 
writings,  which  were  used  in  the  schools, 
had  been  burned  by  their  captors  even  be- 
fore their  northward  march.  Great  was  the 
material  loss  of  this  forced  removal  to  the 
Moravians,  but  there  was  still  a  greater 
loss.  The  glory,  the  hopes,  and  the  bless- 
ings of  the  Christian  Kingdom  on  the  little 

23 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

Tuscarawas    River    constituted    a    volume 
henceforth  forever  closed. 

Left  alone  in  the  Northern  forests,  the 
exiles  began  to  be  in  want.  The  small  stock 
of  provisions  that  had  been  brought  with 
them  was  soon  consumed.  Game  was 
scarce,  corn  was  not  to  be  obtained,  and  it 
appeared  that  no  means  of  sustenance  could 
be  found.  They  wandered  from  place  to 
place,  subsisting  on  whatever  could  be  se- 
cured that  was  at  all  edible,  until  finally 
stopping  at  a  place,  afterwards  known  as 
Captive's  Town,  they  prepared  to  spend  the 
remainder  of  the  winter.  While  the  huts 
of  poles  and  bark  were  being  built,  a  few 
of  the  bravest  Moravians  dared  to  disregard 
their  restricted  liberty  and  returned  to  the 
Tuscarawas  Valley  for  grain.  Seven  were 
captured,  while  the  few  who  escaped 
brought  back  only  about  four  hundred 
bushels  of  corn.  This  supply  was  speedily 
exhausted,  and  the  ravenous  wolf  of  starva- 
tion stared  them  in  the  face.  Something 
must  be  done,  and  that  right  quickly.  After 
deliberation  it  was  decided  that  a  company 
of  men  and  their  families  should  return  to 

24 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

their  old  homes  to  secure  a  good  supply  of 
corn,  which  yet  stood  unharvested  in  the 
fields. 

Acting  on  this  resolve,  over  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  Indians  with  eager  hearts  set 
out  early  in  February,  1782,  for  the  mission 
towns.  When  the  party  arrived  in  the 
valley  it  divided  into  three  detachments,  the 
first  going  to  Schonbrunn,  the  second  to  Sa- 
lem, and  the  third  to  Gnadenhiitten — all 
working  for  a  common  purpose,  the  secur- 
ing of  food  for  their  starving  brethren  in 
the  barren  wilderness.  With  joy  they  la- 
bored, hastily  husking,  shelling,  and  sack- 
ing the  corn,  ever  anxious  for  the  day  to 
draw  near  when  they  should  have  com- 
pleted their  task  and  would  be  able  to  hasten 
back  to  their  friends  with  that  which  alone 
would  give  them  renewed  strength  and  life. 

During  the  years  between  1779  and  1782 
the  Wyandotte  and  other  warlike  tribes  had 
been  on  many  marauding  expeditions,  at- 
tacking the  lonely  cabins  and  hamlets  along 
the  frontier  and  slaying  their  inmates  and 
inhabitants.  Slaughter  and  destruction 
were  rampant  everywhere.  In  1779  some 

25 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

seventy-five  men,  under  the  command  of 
Colonel  Rodgers,  were  slain  near  where 
now  is  the  site  of  Covington,  Kentucky,  and 
early  in  the  summer  of  1781  Colonel  L,och- 
ry's  force  of  one  hundred  men  was  also 
annihilated.  These  atrocities,  linked  with 
the  startling  number  of  homes  and  families 
destroyed,  aroused  the  ire  of  the  border- 
men.  And  quite  often,  after  perpetrating 
many  of  these  vicious  crimes,  the  cunning 
savages  would  make  a  hurried  retreat  in  the 
direction  of  Gnadenhiitten,  causing  many  of 
the  unknowing  to  suspect  the  Moravian  In- 
dians as  the  principal  culprits,  and  leading 
others  to  think  that  they  at  least  had  a  hand 
in  the  depredations. 

And  so  it  appeared  inevitable  that  every 
event  that  transpired  was  but  a  stimulus  to 
the  rising  anger  and  ferocity  of  the  Indian 
fighters  toward  the  humble  Christian  red 
men.  Conditions  were  driving  fast  in  the 
direction  of  chaos,  tragedy,  destruction. 
Multitudinous  and  varied  are  the  stories 
that  have  been  told  and  scattered  broadcast, 
purporting  to  give  a  cloak  of  justice  or  le- 
gality to  this  black  crime  and  to  shield  the 

26 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

criminals.  But  truth,  mighty,  unalterable 
truth  strips  bare  the  falsity  of  all  these  sto- 
ries and  leads  the  honest  historian  and  stu- 
dent to  call  the  perpetrators  of  the  terrible 
massacre  murderers  of  innocent  men  and 
women  and  children. 

One  story,  and  perhaps  the  one  most  re- 
lated, pertained  to  the  murder  of  the  Wal- 
lace family  in  1781,  which  event,  the  nar- 
rators tell  us,  precipitated  the  movement 
which  consummated  in  the  wiping  out  of 
the  mission  kingdom  on  the  banks  of  the 
little  Tuscarawas.  The  apologists  have 
cited  with  much  warmth  the  burning  of  the 
Wallace  cabin  and  the  capture  of  the  mother 
and  her  three  children,  whom  the  savages 
led  away  toward  Gnadenhiitten.  An  Indian 
hunter  named  Carpenter,  who  had  been  cap- 
tured by  the  savages,  was  being  led  over  the 
trail  when  he  is  said  to  have  come  upon  the 
body  of  the  youngest  child  at  the  side  of 
the  path  where  it  had  been  impaled,  to  have 
seen  the  mutilated  body  of  the  child's 
mother,  and  also  to  have  found,  some 
time  later,  the  bloody  garments  hidden  in 
one  of  the  cabins  at  Gnadenhiitten.  Then 

27 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

followed   the   assembling   of   Williamson's 
men. 

This  story,  after  diligent  search  of  rec- 
ords and  comparison  of  credited  historical 
accounts,  is  found  to  be  only  partly  true. 
First  of  all,  the  Christian  Indians  had  noth- 
ing whatever  to  do  with  the  crime,  be- 
cause at  the  time  of  its  perpetration,  late 
in  the  fall  of  1781,  they  were  exiles  in  the 
northern  wilderness;  and  furthermore,  the 
finding  of  the  bloody  dress  in  the  village  is 
only  traditional  and,  excepting  Carpenter, 
no  evidence  of  its  discovery  has  ever  been 
found.  And  Carpenter  had  his  dates  and 
details  so  mixed  that  even  some  of  his 
friends  doubted  his  veracity.  It  is  true, 
however,  that  the  mother  and  baby  were 
slain  in  a  cruel  manner,  but  the  other  two 
children  were  taken  care  of,  one  growing 
to  manhood  and  the  other  son  dying  a 
natural  death.  Minus  all  its  falsity,  this 
story  is  yet  most  tragic ;  still  it  was  not  un- 
like hundreds  of  such  crimes  in  those  days. 
All  things,  however,  moved  towards  a  cli- 
max, for  the  frontiersmen  were  aroused  and 
thirsted  for  the  life  and  scalp  of  the  red 

28 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

man,  be  he  heathen  or  Christian.  Only  the 
wreaking  of  vengeance  would  satisfy  them. 

At  the  coming  of  March,  1782,  word  was 
passed  along  the  border  enjoining  all  men 
to  assemble  and  at  once  march  to  the  Tus- 
carawas  Valley,  for  the  sole  purpose  of 
completely  destroying  the  mission  towns 
and  their  inhabitants.  Over  the  hills  and 
along  the  valleys  of  the  frontier  sped  the 
portending  news.  With  all  speed  of  horse 
and  foot  the  men  hastened  to  Mingo  Bot- 
tom, the  designated  rendezvous,  eager  to 
spill  the  red  man's  blood.  They  came 
singly,  in  pairs,  and  in  squads,  and  all  were 
men  of  brawn  and  daring.  Some  had  hearts 
of  flint  and  faces  that  scowled  in  their  in- 
explicable hatred  of  the  savage.  A  few 
loved  mercy,  but  the  vast  majority  knew  not 
the  meaning  of  such  a  word. 

This  company  gathered  without  legal 
authority,  and  consequently  had  no  ap- 
pointed leader.  The  officer  in  charge  of 
Fort  Pitt,  who  at  this  particular  time  was 
absent  from  his  post,  was  kept  in  the  dark 
concerning  the  proposed  raid  and  learned  of 
it  only  when  the  time  for  intervention  had 

29 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

passed.  But  with  the  self-assertion  of  fear- 
less men  they  picked  the  one  whom  they 
considered  best  suited  for  such  an  atrocious 
task,  and  this  man  was  none  other  than 
Colonel  David  Williamson,  of  Pennsylvania. 
He  at  once  assumed  leadership,  and  at  the 
appointed  time  the  two  hundred  men  who 
had  assembled  began  the  march.  With 
many  riding  and  a  few  walking,  the  aven- 
gers advanced  carelessly  and  without  order 
along  the  trail  leading  to  the  "Tents  of 
Grace."  No  twang  of  conscience  nor  feel- 
ing of  fear  bothered  these  men — they  had  a 
villainous  purpose,  and  boldly  and  arro- 
gantly would  they  carry  it  out. 

On  Tuesday  evening,  March  5th,  the 
Pennsylvania  militia,  as  these  men  called 
themselves,  neared  Gnadenhiitten  and 
camped  upon  the  farther  side  of  the  hill 
overlooking  the  mission  town.  The  follow- 
ing morning  the  pioneers  held  their  council 
and  decided  to  attack  the  hamlet  and  de- 
stroy its  inhabitants  at  once.  They  moved 
nearer,  and  then  the  company  was  separated 
into  two  detachments;  one  was  to  go  for- 
ward to  the  river,  cross  over  to  the  western 

30 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

side,  and  capture  the  Indians  at  work  in  the 
cornfields,  while  the  other  division  was  to 
surround  and  take  the  village. 

The  first  party,  on  coming  near  to  the 
river  bank,  found  a  lone  halfbreed,  whom 
they  instantly  and  mercilessly  killed  and 
scalped,  although  upon  his  trembling  knees 
he  had  begged  that  they  might  spare  his  life. 
They  attempted  to  cross  the  river,  which  at 
this  time  was  somewhat  swollen  from  recent 
storms.  Unable  to  find  a  canoe,  only  six- 
teen succeeded  in  reaching  the  opposite 
shore,  and  this  they  luckily  accomplished  by 
means  of  a  large  wooden  trough  which  had 
formerly  been  used  by  the  Moravians  for 
collecting  sap  from  the  maple  trees.  The 
little  band  with  more  than  usual  caution 
ascended  the  bank.  Realizing  the  utter  fu- 
tility of  attacking  the  large  number  of  In- 
dians in  the  fields,  the  sixteen  frontiersmen 
quickly  changed  their  plans  and  quietly  ap- 
proached the  laborers  as  friends  and  breth- 
ren. They  sympathized  with  the  Moravians 
in  their  suffering  and  banishment,  and  all 
the  while  mingled  with  them  as  they  joy- 
ously gathered  the  grain.  This  was  to  be 

31 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

the  last  day  of  gathering,  as  they  expected 
to  begin  the  return  to  their  fellow-Chris- 
tians at  Captive's  Town  on  the  following 
morning.  But,  alas !  that  was  never  to  be. 
After  numerous  and  varied  fraternal  inqui- 
ries and  words  of  compassion  and  solicitude 
the  border-men  told  the  Indians  that  they 
should  prepare  for  a  journey  to  Pittsburgh, 
where  they  and  their  starving  brethren 
would  be  given  food  and  homes.  Pitts- 
burgh, or  Fort  Pitt,  as  it  was  then  com- 
monly called,  was  a  very  dear  name  to  the 
meek  Moravian  red  men.  The  commandant 
there  had  always  shown  his  friendship  for 
them,  and  upon  receiving  such  an  invitation, 
which  apparently  came  from  Colonel  Gib- 
son, of  Fort  Pitt,  the  Indians  with  one  ac- 
cord believed  implicitly  in  the  veracity  of 
the  white  men.  Gladly  giving  expression 
to  their  eagerness  to  comply  with  the  wishes 
of  their  professed  friends,  they  immediately 
laid  aside  their  work  and  began  the  return 
to  the  "Tents  of  Grace"  to  make  ready  for 
the  journey  to  what  appeared  to  them  to  be 
a  land  flowing  with  the  milk  of  abundant 
prosperity  and  the  honey  of  unmolested 
liberty.  2 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

In  the  meantime  the  other  division  had 
entered  the  village.  At  its  outskirts  some 
of  the  men  had  found,  hiding  among  the 
hazel  bushes,  a  defenseless  man  and  his 
wife,  whom  they  quickly  murdered.  The 
town  being  empty  of  all  inhabitants,  the 
border-men  took  complete  possession  and 
awaited  the  approach  of  their  companions 
and  the  Indians  from  the  cornfields  across 
the  river.  When  they  did  finally  come  near, 
those  occupying  the  hamlet  noted  the  seem- 
ing friendship  that  existed  among  the  red 
and  white  men,  and  intuitively  grasping  the 
situation,  also  accosted  the  Moravians  as 
friends.  After  a  profusion  of  further  greet- 
ings and  questions  the  frontiersmen  casually 
suggested  that  if  the  Indians  would  give 
their  weapons  over  into  the  safe-keeping  of 
their  white  friends  they  could  immediately 
begin  to  get  ready  for  the  pilgrimage  to 
Fort  Pitt.  The  Moravians  agreed  to  this 
suggestion,  turned  over  all  their  arms,  and 
with  a  will  set  to  work  hunting  up  and  gath- 
ering together  their  belongings. 

One  of  the  Moravian  teachers,  John  Mar- 
tin, and  his  son  on  their  way  to  Salem  came 

3  33 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

near  Gnadenhutten  at  this  unlucky  hour. 
Noticing  the  presence  of  other  people  in  the 
valley  than  their  brown  brethren,  the  twain 
rode  nearer  to  the  village.  On  seeing  the 
Americans  going  to  and  fro  among  the  In- 
dians, the  missionary  hastily  concluded  that 
the  blessing  of  protection  and  liberty  had 
come  to  his  people — that  for  which  he  had 
long  hoped  and  prayed.  Sending  his  son 
to  the  "Tents  of  Grace"  to  apprise  the 
Americans  and  his  brethren  that  he  had 
gone  to  Salem  with  the  good  tidings  of 
temporal  salvation,  he  hurried  on  with  a 
light  heart,  dreaming  of  better  days  for  the 
Moravian  Indians.  Salem,  it  must  be  re- 
membe1  ed,  was  about  five  miles  below  Gna- 
denhutten, and  its  site  was  near  the  present 
village  of  Port  Washington. 

After  a  short  consultation  with  the  Chris- 
tian red  men,  Martin,  accompanied  by  two 
of  the  older  and  more  educated  men  from 
Salem,  hastened  back  to  the  "Tents  of 
Grace."  The  trio,  speaking  in  behalf  of 
their  brethren,  gladly  accepted  the  proffered 
protection  of  the  Americans  and  asked  that 
a  small  guard  be  sent  with  them  to  lead 

34 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

back  their  fellow-Moravians  from  Salem. 
This  request  was  granted,  but  the  sending 
of  the  men  was  put  off  until  the  following 
morning.  The  remainder  of  the  day  they 
put  to  good  use  by  helping  the  unsuspect- 
ing Moravians  to  bring  together  all  their 
treasures  and  goods.  Early  Thursday 
morning,  March  7th,  a  band  of  the  border- 
men,  with  the  two  veteran  Indians  as  guides, 
marched  off,  purposing  to  bring  back  the 
red  men  who  had  been  laboring  in  the  fields 
near  Salem.  When  the  company  reached 
its  destination  the  workers  were  found  al- 
ready assembled  and  anxiously  waiting  the 
coming  of  their  deliverers.  With  all  speed 
they  began  to  return  to  Gnadenhutten,  from 
which  place  the  entire  body  of  Moravians 
was  to  start  on  the  journey  to  Pittsburgh. 

But  back  in  the  mission  town  of  erstwhile 
prosperity  and  peace  things  had  taken  a 
turn.  The  valuable  and  treasured  goods, 
which  the  Moravians  had  hidden  before 
they  were  driven  into  the  north  some  few 
months  previous,  had  all  been  unearthed 
and  brought  together,  and  everything  was 
in  readiness  for  the  departure.  It  would  be 

35 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

easy  now  for  the  avengers  to  accomplish 
their  purpose  and  then  flee  with  the  spoils. 
This,  indeed,  was  the  border-men's  oppor- 
tunity. Without  warning  and  without  de- 
lay they  sprang  upon  the  helpless  Indians, 
made  them  captives,  and  imprisoned  them 
in  two  houses:  the  men  and  boys  were 
placed  in  one,  while  the  women  and  chil- 
dren were  thrust  into  another. 

When  the  Moravians  from  Salem  came 
upon  the  bloody  spot  where  Schebosh,  the 
half  breed,  had  been  killed  the  day  before, 
they  naturally  were  startled  and  amazed. 
They  turned  to  question  their  pretended  de- 
liverers, but  before  they  could  speak  the 
Americans  had  pounced  upon  them.  Tying 
their  hands  and  otherwise  making  escape 
impossible,  the  white  men  led  them  into  the 
village,  and  immediately  they  were  placed 
in  the  cabins  with  their  brethren.  Now,  in- 
stead of  the  friendly  words  and  the  cordial 
greetings,  the  Moravians  heard  only  the 
wild  curses  and  diabolical  taunts  of  their 
villainous  captors.  The  friendship  of  the 
Americans  was  changed  to  the  merciless 
cruelty  of  enemies  thirsting  for  the  blood 

36 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

of  their  captives.  The  insanity  of  insatiable 
vengeance  dominated.  Justice  had  de- 
parted, and  mercy  was  dead. 

Williamson's  men  held  a  council.  What 
should  be  done  with  their  captives  ?  Should 
they  be  taken  direct  to  Fort  Pitt  as  prison- 
ers of  war  or  should  they  at  once  be  slaugh- 
tered ?  The  major  number  of  the  men  out- 
spokenly favored  the  latter  plan,  but  there 
were  in  the  company  a  few  who  apparently 
preferred  the  former.  Due  to  the  disagree- 
ment that  was  in  evidence,  a  long  discussion 
ensued,  wherein  every  man  had  the  privi- 
lege of  airing  his  opinions,  and  many  did 
so  with  no  little  profanity  and  a  notable 
paucity  of  logic.  A  trial  then  followed, 
and  a  make-believe  one  it  was,  too !  The  In- 
dians pleaded  their  innocence  of  the  charge 
that  they  were  criminals,  explained  their 
honorable  intentions,  spoke  of  their  friendly 
interest  in  the  American  cause,  reiterated 
their  simple  belief  in  the  Christian  religion, 
and  enunciated  their  disbelief  in  war.  Some 
of  the  frontiersmen  wavered  at  the  red 
men's  honest  plea,  and  no  unanimous  con- 
clusion could  be  reached.  The  so-called 

37 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

trial  ended.  To  settle  the  discussion  a  vote 
was  decided  on.  All  the  men  were  drawn 
up  in  line,  and  Colonel  Williamson,  in  ring- 
ing tones,  commanded  that  all  who  favored 
taking  the  Moravian  Indians  to  Pittsburgh 
as  prisoners  should  step  forward  and  form 
a  second  rank.  Of  the  two  hundred  men 
only  eighteen  moved  forward.  The  ques- 
tion was  settled,  the  die  cast.  Upon  flimsy 
allegations  they  were  to  murder  innocent 
Christians — men,  women,  and  children,  who 
worshiped  the  same  God  and  lived  better 
and  purer  lives  than  they,  the  assassins. 

Several  of  the  Americans  desired  to  set 
fire  to  the  houses  and  at  the  same  time  cre- 
mate all  the  Indians  and  completely  wipe 
out  the  village.  The  greater  number,  how- 
ever, wished  to  kill  and  scalp  the  prisoners 
one  by  one,  and  then,  after  this  was  done, 
to  set  the  cabins  on  fire.  The  purpose  was 
to  proceed  at  once  with  the  massacre;  but 
the  Moravians  earnestly  pleaded  that  as 
Christians  they  be  given  until  the  following 
morning  to  make  ready  for  the  grim  death 
that  awaited  them.  The  request  was  finally 
granted,  and  the  border-men  prepared  to 

38 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

spend  the  night  pleasantly,  further  deliber- 
ating on  the  best  means  of  accomplishing 
their  murderous  intents  and  in  giving  them- 
selves up  to  slumber  and  carouse. 

At  first  the  Indians  were  overwhelmed  by 
the  announcement  of  the  massacre.  The 
consternation  that  fell  upon  those  meek  and 
credulous  men  and  women,  boys  and  girls, 
can  scarcely  be  described.  Men  and  women 
moaned  and  wept,  while  the  voices  of  chil- 
dren rose  in  strident  cries  and  wails.  All 
repeatedly  protested  their  innocence  and 
craved  freedom.  But  all  was  in  vain — no 
ear  heeded  their  pleadings.  After  the  first 
hour  of  bitter  weeping  and  dread  despair 
the  consciousness  of  their  firm  faith  in  God 
and  of  their  innocence  gave  them  renewed 
courage  and  strength  when  thus  brought 
face  to  face  with  their  inexorable  fate. 
Such  strength  and  courage  came  to  the 
Christian  red  men  as  came  to  the  devout 
martyrs  who,  in  Nero's  time,  sang  songs  of 
triumph  while  they  waited,  in  the  Roman 
arena,  for  the  hungry  lions  to  pounce  upon 
them.  And  then  conditions  changed  in  the 
two  cabins,  and  all  prepared  to  spend  their 

39 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

last  hours  of  life  in  meditation,  exhortation, 
prayer,  and  song. 

The  night — black,  portending  night — 
wore  slowly  on.  Within  the  prison-houses 
the  Moravians  in  subdued  and  vibrant  tones 
sang  their  hymns  and  offered  up  their 
prayers,  beseeching  the  protection  and  care 
of  the  Infinite  One  in  their  time  of  extrem- 
ity. Some  of  the  better-educated  men  and 
women  exhorted  and  gave  encouragement 
to  their  more  timid  friends,  and  those  who 
had  harbored  any  ill-feelings  against  their 
neighbors  forgave  and  were  forgiven.  Al- 
though the  hours  crept  by  but  slowly,  yet 
they  held  not  the  fear  and  despair  of  the 
hour  just  following  the  terrible  death-edict. 
And  as  the  prayers  and  songs  of  faith  and 
triumph  ever  and  anon  reached  the  ears  of 
the  wild  and  revengeful  Americans  many 
grew  strangely  calm  and  thoughtful,  while 
some  of  the  less  heartless  ones,  believing  in 
and  touched  by  the  sincerity  of  the  devo- 
tions of  the  Moravians,  slipped  away 
through  the  shades  of  darkness,  climbed 
the  hill  just  back  of  the  village,  and  spent 
the  night  where  they  heard  not  the  exhorta- 

40 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

tions,  prayers,  and  songs.  But  by  the 
greater  number  of  the  Americans  the  devo- 
tions of  their  Christian  prisoners  were  un- 
heeded. Such  worship  touched  no  respon- 
sive chords  in  the  hearts  of  the  border-men 
who  crowded  about  their  commander, 
Colonel  David  Williamson. 

The  new  day  dawned — it  was  Friday,  the 
memorable  eighth  day  of  March,  1782.  The 
day  was  fine,  and  neither  shadow  nor  cloud 
presaged  the  approaching  tragedy.  Coming 
from  the  cabins  still  could  be  heard  the  fer- 
vent supplications  and  trimphant  hymns. 
To  the  inquiry  if  they  were  ready  to  die, 
the  Moravian  Indians  gave  this  heroic  re- 
ply: "We  are  ready.  Jesus,  to  whom  we 
have  committed  our  souls,  gives  us  the  as- 
surance that  He  will  receive  us." 

Immediately  the  awful  massacre  began. 
Two  cabins  were  designated  as  "slaughter- 
houses." One,  the  cooper-shop  formerly 
used  by  Joshua,  the  Mohican  elder,  was 
selected  in  which  to  kill  the  men  and  boys, 
and  another  building  nearby  was  chosen  in 
which  to  slay  the  women  and  children.  A 
native  Pennsylvanian,  whose  name  has  long 

41 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

since  been  forgotten,  had  charge  of  the 
massacring  of  the  males,  and  it  is  told  of 
him  that,  on  entering  the  cabin,  he  seized 
a  large  mallet  from  the  work-bench,  re- 
marking as  he  did  so,  "This  exactly  suits 
the  business  in  hand."  The  captives,  now  in 
a  fair  measure  completely  resigned  to  their 
terrible  fate,  were  bound  and  led  into  the 
"slaughter-houses"  two  at  a  time.  The  first 
to  receive  the  deathblow  from  the  mallet 
was  Abraham,  the  oldest  of  the  victims, 
whose  long,  shaggy  gray  hair  had  caused 
some  of  the  assassins  to  previously  remark, 
"What  a  fine  scalp  this  will  make !"  One 
after  another  of  the  doomed  was  roughly 
brought  forward,  given  the  fatal  blow, 
scalped,  and  left  lying  upon  the  floor. 
Upon  receiving  the  first  blow  some  of  the 
victims  started  up  dazed  and  stunned,  but 
with  a  second  blow  they  would  reel,  stag- 
ger, and  fall  to  the  floor  beside  their  dead 
and  dying  comrades. 

Some  loudly  begged  for  mercy,  some 
prayed,  and  still  others  remained  silent  as 
the  instrument  of  destruction  was  lifted 
above  their  heads.  The  prayers  and  cries 

42 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

of  the  doomed,  the  arrogant  profanity  of 
the  executioners,  the  dull,  sickening  thud 
of  the  mallet  or  tomahawk  as  it  sunk  itself 
in  the  skulls  of  the  Moravians — all  these 
varied  sounds  intermingled  most  unharmo- 
niously. 

In  both  cabins  the  lifeblood  of  the  Chris- 
tian Indians  discolored  the  puncheon  floors 
and  ran  in  rivulets  across  the  boards  and 
streamed  through  the  cracks  to  the  cavelike 
cellars  beneath.  The  males  were  slain 
first,  and  then  came  the  slaughter  of  the 
women  and  the  little  children.  The  first  one 
of  the  females  to  be  massacred  was  Judith, 
an  educated  and  beloved  leader  among  the 
women  of  the  mission  towns.  It  is  also 
authentically  told  that  one  woman,  who 
spoke  English  fluently,  when  led  into  the 
chamber  of  death  fell  to  her  knees  before 
Williamson  and  begged  for  his  mercy.  He 
scornfully  replied,  "I  can  not  help  you." 
And  thus  without  pause  the  horrible,  blood- 
chilling  work  went  on  until  ninety  persons 
had  been  cruelly  murdered:  twenty-nine 
men,  twenty-seven  women,  eleven  girls, 
eleven  boys,  and  twelve  infants.  In  all 

43 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

ninety-six  were  massacred,  six  of  whom  met 
death  at  the  hands  of  the  Americans  in  or 
about  the  towns  previous  to  the  general 
slaughter. 

The  massacre  was  over,  and  an  appalling 
sight  the  "slaughter-houses"  presented ! 
The  floors  of  both  buildings  were  covered 
with  lifeless  bodies  huddled  indiscriminately 
here  and  there  in  great  pools  of  blood.  In 
one  corner  might  be  seen  a  father  and  in 
another  his  son ;  or  here  might  be  a  mother, 
and  there,  separated  by  a  heap,  perhaps,  was 
her  babe  of  a  few  weeks.  No  just  man 
could  have  gazed  upon  that  scene  without 
feeling,  for  the  time  at  least,  that  there 
was  no  justice  and  no  mercy  under  the  sun, 
and  that  the  innocent  suffered  for  the  sins 
of  the  guilty. 

But  two  boys,  Jacob  and  Thomas,  es- 
caped. They  were  both  scalped,  but  the 
blows  from  the  mallet  had  only  stunned 
them.  After  loosing  his  bonds  Jacob  cau- 
tiously slipped  through  a  trap-door  into  the 
cellar.  Here,  with  the  blood  of  his  friends 
slowly  dripping  upon  him,  and  with  terror 
written  on  every  ligament  of  his  face,  he 

44 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

crouched  in  a  corner  until  evening,  when 
he  squeezed  through  the  one  small  window 
and  fled  into  the  woods.  Thomas  lay  quiet, 
feigning  death,  until  nightfall,  when  he 
carefully  crept  over  the  dead  bodies  of  his 
brethren  and  ran  off  to  the  forest,  where  he 
came  upon  Jacob  after  a  short  search.  To- 
gether they  hurried  to  Schonbrunn  to  warn 
their  friends  at  that  place  of  the  impending 
danger  and  relate  to  them  the  tragedy  of 
the  "Tents  of  Grace."  Abel,  another  boy 
who  had  only  been  stunned  by  the  execu- 
tioner's blow,  was  in  the  act  of  making  his 
escape  when  one  of  the  murderers  espied 
him.  A  blow  from  a  tomahawk  quickly 
laid  low  the  last  of  the  Indian  martyrs. 
Another  lad,  named  Benjamin,  younger 
than  either  Jacob  or  Thomas,  is  said  to  have 
been  saved  in  some  way,  and  tradition  has 
it  that  when  the  Moravians  were  captured 
this  youngster's  comeliness  so  attracted  the 
attention  of  a  young  minister  that  he, 
against  the  wishes  of  his  companions,  took 
the  lad  from  among  the  prisoners.  The 
sweetheart  of  the  preacher  had  been  mur- 
dered by  the  savages,  and  he  had  joined  the 

45 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

border-men  to  avenge  her  death.  On  reach- 
ing the  mission  town  and  hearing  the  story 
of  its  inhabitants,  however,  he  became  con- 
fident of  the  innocence  of  the  Christian  red 
men  and  refused  to  take  part  in  the  mas- 
sacre. It  is  further  told  that  the  minister 
cared  for  the  lad  until  he  had  grown  to 
manhood,  at  which  time  the  call  of  his 
heritage  had  become  so  loud  and  insistent 
that  he  gave  way  to  it  and  returned  to  his 
tribe. 

Others  of  the  hundred  and  eighty-two 
men  voting  for  the  slaughter  of  the  inno- 
cent, like  the  young  divine,  after  more 
thought  hesitated  upon  taking  an  active  part 
in  the  annihilation.  Consequently  the  num- 
ber of  men  who  actually  did  the  work  of 
binding  and  leading  forth,  of  slaying  and 
scalping  the  Moravians,  was  not  nearly  so 
many  as  vauntingly  had  entered  the  Tusca- 
rawas  Valley  for  that  purpose.  However, 
in  this  day  and  age  we  can  not  look  upon 
even  the  silent  onlookers  of  such  a  mon- 
strous deed  with  any  degree  of  condescen- 
sion, for  while  in  the  sight  of  a  few  they 

46 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

may  not  be  so  mired  in  the  crime,  yet  they 
were  part  and  parcel  of  the  criminals. 

After  securing  all  the  plunder  possible, 
they  applied  burning  brands  to  every  build- 
ing in  the  town — nothing  was  to  remain  of 
the  mission  town  save  its  memory.  As  the 
flames  from  the  burning  homes  raised  their 
accusing  light,  the  men  in  wild  revelry  rode 
away,  never  dreaming  that  they  had  been 
the  perpetrators  of  a  crime  that  would  for- 
ever mark  the  darkest  and  most  disgraceful 
page  in  the  entire  history  of  the  white  man's 
treatment  of  his  red  brother.  The  curtain 
had  fallen,  the  tragedy  had  ended,  and  for 
cold-blooded  cruelty  its  equal  has  never 
been  enacted  by  civilized  man.  Thus  the 
fruit  of  ten  years'  arduous  labor  was  appar- 
ently lost.  The  dream  of  Christian  empire 
that  had  for  so  short  a  time  come  to  reality 
was  no  more — nor  was  it  ever  possible 
again. 

Bowed  down  under  the  burden  of  sadness 
and  scattered  hopes  which  fell  upon  the  mis- 
sionary, David  Zeisberger,  after  hearing  of 
the  massacre,  he  was  led  to  write  in  his 

47 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

diary  on  April  8,  1872,  these  sentences: 
"Nowhere  is  a  place  to  be  found  to  which  we 
can  retire  with  our  Indians  and  be  secure. 
The  world  is  all  too  narrow.  From  the 
white  people,  or  so-called  Christians,  we 
can  hope  for  no  protection,  and  among  the 
heathen  we  have  no  friends,  such  outlaws 
are  we!" 

As  to  what  finally  became  of  the  male- 
factors, little  is  known.  Finding  the  coun- 
try at  large  detesting  such  inhumanity, 
those  who  had  a  hand  in  the  crime  tried 
to  hold  their  knowledge  of  it  in  secret. 
Nevertheless  the  particulars  crept  out  in 
odd  ways  and  at  divers  times.  The  more 
bold  had  circulated  many  stories  of  the  Mo- 
ravians in  a  strenuous  effort  to  throw  the 
blame  for  the  massacre  from  their  own 
shoulders,  but  the  more  conscientious  and 
timid  told  the  truth ;  and  all  these  facts, 
linked  with  the  stories  of  the  two  escaped 
boys,  give  ample  authentic  history  of  the 
tragedy  of  the  "Tents  of  Grace." 

Some  sixteen  years  later,  1798,  kind 
friends  gathered  up  the  bleached  bones  and 
gave  them  decent  burial  at  the  edge  of  the 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

destroyed  hamlet.  An  attempt  at  refound- 
ing  the  mission  was  made  in  1798  at 
Goshen,  near  Schonbrunn,  but  the  rapid 
coming  of  the  white  settlers  had  such  a  de- 
moralizing influence  among  the  Indians  that 
they  soon  had  to  be  taken  elsewhere.  The 
white  settlers  founded  the  new  Gnadenhiit- 
ten  the  same  year,  and  although  it  grew 
slowly,  yet  it  was  a  thrifty  German  farming 
center. 

To-day  a  tall  shaft,  erected  in  1872, 
marks  the  spot  where  the  ninety  martyrs 
met  death.  Three  grassy  mounds  point  out 
the  resting-place  of  the  bones  of  the  In- 
dians, the  site  of  the  old  mission  church, 
and  the  spot  where  stood  the  cooper-shop 
which  had  been  used,  you  will  remember,  as 
one  of  the  "slaughter-houses."  A  little  far- 
ther away,  imbedded  in  concrete,  is  a  part 
of  the  tombstone  that  had  been  erected  over 
the  grave  of  the  beloved  Joshua,  the  Mohi- 
can elder  of  the  "Tents  of  Grace,"  giving 
the  date  of  his  death  as  August  5,  1775. 
Here  and  there  can  also  be  seen  two  or 
three  depressions  in  the  earth's  surface 
which  once  had  been  the  cellars  beneath  the 

4  49 


The  Tents  of  Grace 

homes  of  some  thrifty  Christian  Indians. 
And  what  was  the  site  of  old  Gnadenhiitten 
is  the  large  and  beautiful  cemetery  and 
monument  grounds  of  the  Gnadenhutten  of 
the  present. 


The  Voice  in  the  Primitive 

WITH  wide-opened  eyes  and  tightly-gripped 
weapon  the  man  halted,  stooped,  and  peered 
among  the  trees.  A  breaking  twig,  he 
thought;  and  that,  when  no  wind  stirred, 
proclaimed  the  presence  of  life.  Perhaps 
it  was  his  victim.  The  «blood  leaped  hot 
within  his  veins  demanding  vengeance.  He 
strained  his  eyes,  listened,  and  waited.  Not 
a  sound  fell  upon  his  ears.  The  awesome 
silence  of  the  primeval  forest  alone  was  ap- 
parent. It  must  have  been  a  bird  stirring 
in  one  of  the  trees,  thought  the  dark,  keen- 
eyed  man  as  he  hastened  on  through  the 
narrow  valley,  following  even  more  closely 
than  ever  the  well-nigh  hidden  trail. 

Long  hours  and  many  miles  had  been  left 
behind  as  he  hurried  on.  Cunning  as  he 
was  he  felt  himself  matched  now,  but  still 
the  eternal  hatred  gave  him  renewed  energy 
to  continue  the  hunt.  Always  he  had 


The  Voice  in  the  Primitive 

thirsted  for  the  blood  of  the  red  man. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  of  his  ancestors — all 
men  of  brawn  and  battle ;  or,  maybe,  it  was 
the  spirit  of  the  border.  But  now  he  had 
cause  for  a  feeling  of  hatred  an  hundred- 
fold more  intense  than  ever  before ;  for  not 
twenty-four  hours  had  left  their  marks  of 
intermingled  sorrow  and  rage  upon  his 
brow  since  some  vagrant  had  touched  a 
brand  to  his  little  cabin  and  laid  low  his 
young  wife  with  a  blow  from  the  fatal 
tomahawk.  He  had  been  up  at  Fort  Pitt 
securing  some  needed  supplies,  and  at  noon 
had  reached  what  was  once  his  home,  as 
the  dying  flames  derisively  flung  themselves 
skyward.  At  once  the  frontiersman  looked 
about  for  some  signs  of  the  departed  des- 
peradoes, and  strange  as  it  seemed,  so  far 
from  an  Indian  village,  the  moccasin  tracks 
of  but  one  person  were  discerned.  So,  fear- 
ing little  that  he  might  come  upon  a  band 
of  savages,  he  immediately  had  set  out. 

Hours  ago  he  had  left  behind  the  Ohio 
River  flowing  tranquilly  on  to  the  Father 
of  Rivers,  and  over  many  hills  and  along 
numerous  streams  he  had  hurried  after  his 


The  Voice  in  the  Primitive 

prey,  until  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  fol- 
lowing the  crime  he  must  have  been  more 
than  fifty  miles  from  Fort  Henry,  not  far 
from  which  had  been  situated  his  home. 

Harder  and  harder  became  the  task  of 
keeping  on  the  trail.  Stratagems,  he  knew, 
were  being  used  to  lead  him  away  from  his 
proposed  victim,  but  with  the  stubborn 
tenacity  of  a  great  purpose,  born  of  un- 
quenchable hatred,  he  kept  on.  At  last, 
when  the  sun  had  almost  hid  itself,  he  came 
to  the  base  of  a  gently  sloping  hill  and 
halted.  Bending,  he  examined  the  turf  on 
all  sides,  retraced  his  steps  a  few  feet,  and 
came  back,  a  sense  of  failure  coming  over 
him.  So  far  he  knew  he  had  followed  the 
trail  closely,  continually;  but  here  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill  it  seemed  to  end.  No  tracks, 
no  marks,  no  broken  twigs  or  crushed 
leaves  gave  evidence  that  any  one  had 
passed  beyond  this  point.  Possibly  his 
enemy  was  hidden  in  the  undergrowth  on 
the  hillside  waiting  his  approach;  but  no 
bird  uttered  a  note  of  fright  nor  fluttered 
nervously  about,  as  is  usual  when  anything 
other  than  bird  and  beast  infests  the  forest. 

53 


The  Voice  in  the  Primitive 

Without  fear,  and  yet  guardedly,  he  moved 
eastward  and  then  westward,  hoping  to 
come  upon  some  sign  that  would  betray  the 
direction  the  savage  had  taken.  This  effort 
was  futile.  Then  he  ascended  the  hill  till 
he  came  to  an  open  place,  not  unlike  a  di- 
minutive plain  tucked  away  from  its  wonted 
place  and  surrounded  by  trees.  Disap- 
pointed and  chagrined  at  his  inability  to  fol- 
low his  enemy,  the  man  raised  his  eyes  from 
the  ground  and  looked  about  him — first  at 
the  upturned  bowl  of  sky,  and  then  at  the 
rivulet  and  the  woodland  that  stretched 
away  on  every  side,  like  some  magnificent 
garden  of  the  Cyclops. 

Suddenly  and  unexpectedly  his  gaze 
ceased  to  wander  and  his  face  became  rigid 
and  flushed — flushed  with  the  fever  of  his 
passion  for  the  red  man's  blood.  To  his 
right,  not  an  hundred  yards  away,  he  saw 
faint  clouds  of  smoke  floating  up  from 
among  the  trees.  There  was  his  victim. 

Again  he  was  the  Indian  fighter,  fierce, 
bold,  determined.  Quietly,  shrewdly  he 
hastened  from  the  open  place  into  the  for- 
est and,  gliding  from  tree  to  tree,  he  crept 

54 


The  Voice  in  the  Primitive 

upon  his  foe,  who  doubtlessly  was  prepar- 
ing his  evening  meal,  wholly  unaware  of  the 
proximity  of  his  enemy.  On  through  the 
undergrowth  and  among  the  trees  he  si- 
lently sped  until,  not  fifty  feet  away  from 
his  hiding-place  behind  a  great  oak,  the 
hunter  saw  a  solitary  Indian  sitting  on  his 
haunches  before  a  small  fire. 

The  time  for  vengeance  had  come.  He 
raised  his  long  rifle  and  steadied  it  against 
his  shoulder.  His  eye,  following  along  the 
sights  of  the  barrel,  rested  on  the  breast  of 
his  victim.  His  eye  was  true.  Never  had 
he  missed  his  aim.  A  moment  more,  and 
the  savage  would  be  writhing  in  the  death- 
struggle.  Then  taking  a  full  breath,  with 
finger  against  the  trigger,  he  watched  the 
redskin  as  he  sat  before  the  fire  of  sticks 
and  leaves.  How  he  despised  the  red  man ! 
His  finger  pressed  more  heavily  against  the 
trigger. 

A  strange  sound,  a  distant  echo,  now  low 
and  soft,  and  now  more  distinct,  came  from 
over  and  beyond  the  hill's  crest.  The 
hunter's  finger  relaxed.  Still  came  the 
sound — tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle!  Away  back 

55 


The  Voice  in  the  Primitive 

in  Boston  in  his  boyhood  days  he  had  heard 
similar  sounds ;  it  was  the  ringing  of  a  bell. 
What  did  it  mean? 

Strange  stories  which  he  had  heard  at 
Fort  Henry  came  to  his  mind — stories  of 
the  "Tents  of  Grace,"  beautiful  hamlet  of 
the  Moravians,  and  how  each  morning  at 
sunrise  and  each  evening  at  sunset  the  bell 
on  the  little  mission  church  called  the  lowly 
red  men  and  women  to  prayer. 

Wondering,  the  hunter  turned  to  the  sav- 
age and  again  raised  his  rifle.  Then,  as  his 
eyes  noted  the  details,  the  stories  which  he 
had  heard  and  thought  of  only  as  mythical 
became  realistic. 

The  Indian  no  longer  sat  in  repose  before 
the  blazing  coals,  but  stood  erect,  with  arms 
folded  and  head  bowed.  No  longer  the  un- 
tamed red  man  of  history,  he  understood 
the  call  of  the  bell  and  gave  heed — he 
prayed  to  the  white  man's  God. 

Slowly  the  passion  for  the  blood  of  this 
Indian  abated  and  was  still.  The  frontiers- 
man lowered  the  rifle,  glanced  at  the  Chris- 
tian Delaware,  and  then  hastened  away, 

56 


The  Voice  in  the  Primitive 

only  a  little  later  to  find  the  lost  trail  and 
hurry  on  over  the  hill,  beyond  the  "Tents 
of  Grace,"  and  north  toward  the  Wyandotte 
town. 


57 


After  Many  Years 

THE  twilight  fast  gives  way  to  the  gather- 
ing gloom  of  night's  shadows.  Another 
day,  after  giving  to  Edward  Hillmann  its 
full  quota  of  health-building  enjoyment,  has 
passed  to  Him  who  gave  it;  and  now  Hill- 
mann sits,  idly  enough,  in  an  easy  rocker 
upon  the  piazza,  of  his  boyhood's  home. 
The  man's  mind,  however,  is  far  from  idle. 
He  is  laying  ingenious  plans  for  the  work 
he  is  to  do,  the  battles  he  is  to  fight,  and  the 
victories  he  has  vowed  to  win  when  this 
life  in  God's  out-doors  shall  have  given 
him  back  the  superb  physical  manhood  of 
yesterday. 

In  the  house  Hillmann's  sister  busies  her- 
self with  her  usual  after-dinner  tasks. 
When  these  are  finished  she  throws  aside 
her  apron  and  passes  into  the  parlor,  there 
to  commune  with  her  beloved  piano.  And 
no  sooner  did  the  girl's  skillful  fingers  be- 
gin to  draw  from  the  instrument  the  di- 
vine soul  of  melody,  which  God  Himself 

59 


After  Many  Years 

must  have  placed  therein,  than  Hillmann's 
plans  are  cast  aside  for  future  consideration 
and  he  has  no  longer  any  power  or  sense 
save  an  ear  to  hear  and  a  soul  to  appreciate. 
Then,  as  the  girl  begins  playing  an  old, 
sweet  selection,  a  favorite  of  another  day, 
the  man  gains  another  sense — even  an  eye 
to  see,  to  see,  not  the  present  or  the  future, 
but  a  scene  from  the  archives  of  his  past. 

There  is  a  far-away  village,  there  is  a 
stately  mansion,  there  is  a  parlor  sumptu- 
ously yet  modestly  furnished,  there  is  a 
young  man — Hillmann  himself — comfort- 
ably lounging  amid  the  depths  of  a  huge 
rocker;  and  last,  there  is  a  girl  seated  at  a 
piano  playing  the  same  soft  snatch  of  song. 

To  look  into  the  young  man's  eyes  as  he 
gazes  at  the  girl  is  to  know  that,  to  him  at 
least,  she  is  the  maiden  beautiful,  the  chef- 
d'oeuvre  of  the  Master  Builder. 

But  love's  path  often  takes  a  spiteful  turn 
and  a  multitude  of  rocks  appear.  And  so 
it  is  that  after  the  selection  is  finished,  and 
while  these  young  folks  are  talking,  as  all 
lovers  do  and  should,  a  trivial  word  is 
spoken,  a  wrong  construction  is  placed  upon 

60 


After  Many  Years 

it,  jealousy  stalks  in,  a  lively  quarrel  en- 
sues, and  in  a  few  brief  moments  the  girl 
is  lying  on  the  floor  crying  as  though  her 
heart  has  been  broken,  while  the  man,  with 
hands  tightly  clenched,  is  walking  swiftly 
away  from  the  house  which  has  held  and 
still  holds — although  he  would  not  admit  it 
now — all  that  he  holds  dear. 

Hillmann's  sister  has  ceased  playing  and 
taken  her  seat  beside  him  on  the  wide  pi- 
azza, but  he  does  not  see  her.  The  vision 
of  the  past  still  holds  sway  over  him  and 
he  sees  the  events  since  that  night  of  fate 
pass,  one  by  one,  before  him,  this  being 
their  purport: 

He  longed  to  ask  her  forgiveness  and  be 
reinstated  into  her  favor,  but  he  was  a 
worthy  descendant  of  a  long  line  of  un- 
yielding men,  and  the  days  passed  fruit- 
lessly by.  After  a  while  business  called 
him  to  a  permanent  residence  in  a  great 
city  many  miles  to  the  north,  and  soon 
thereafter  he  heard  that  Marie  Ayres  had 
gone  abroad  and  so  ended  his  knowledge 
concerning  her.  He  tried  to  forget  her  and 
to  imagine  that  they  had  but  indulged  in  a 

61 


After  Many  Years 

harmless  flirtation.  Although  he  appeared 
to  the  world  as  a  strong,  genial  man  of  af- 
fairs, he  knew  that  there  must  ever  be  an 
aching  void  which  the  years  could  not  en- 
tirely fill. 

Hillmann  did  find  a  peace,  however,  a  tu- 
multuous peace,  which  almost  satisfied  his 
wants.  Being  well  versed  in  politics  and 
having  some  ability  as  a  speaker  and  writer, 
he  decided  to  give  up  his  clerical  position 
and  enter  the  political  world,  espousing  a 
rising  reform  party.  Although  stigmatized 
a  crank,  a  fanatic,  and  a  fool,  he  enjoyed 
his  chosen  work,  and  soon  came  to  believe 
that  it  was  his  calling.  His  past  disappoint- 
ments, he  felt,  were  designed  to  show  him 
that  he  must  labor  in  behalf  of  humanity, 
be  a  friend  of  the  oppressed. 

As  the  weeks  passed  into  months,  and  the 
months  into  years,  he  worked  harder  and 
accomplished  the  greater  results.  Becom- 
ing noted  as  a  vote-winner  the  scope  of  his 
work  broadened  until  he  became  well 
known  throughout  his  own  State  and  those 
surrounding  it  as  a  practical  and  sagacious 
politician. 

62 


After  Many  Years 

The  longer  he  remained  in  the  service  the 
more  fascinating  it  became,  and  he  grew 
ambitious  for  political  honors.  Several 
times  he  accepted  his  party's  nomination  for 
minor  offices,  each  time  going  down  to  de- 
feat. But  Hillmann  was  not  discouraged, 
for  he  saw  the  party  slowly  but  surely  grow 
from  a  mere  handful  to  a  vast  multitude 
that  would  soon  carry  all  the  elections. 

At  last  the  time  he  had  dreamed  of  drew 
near,  and  Hillmann  saw  that  his  party's 
prospects  for  carrying  the  coming  State 
election  were  most  excellent,  but  his  share 
of  the  work  which  brought  about  these 
prospects  made  it  necessary  that  he  should 
consult  his  physician. 

"Threatened  with  a  complete  physical 
collapse  ...  a  month's  rest  in  the  coun- 
try," was  the  verdict;  and  being  a  man  of 
sense,  Hillmann  went  back  to  his  boyhood's 
home,  where  he  was  now  regaining  his  lost 
vigor  and  trying  not  to  care  that  this  very 
day  had  ushered  in  the  convention  which 
was  to  have  meant  so  much  to  him. 

The  pale  moon  grows  brighter  and 
brighter  as  it  sails  slowly,  majestically 

63 


After  Many  Yean 

across  the  dusky  dome  of  sky.  One  by  one 
the  twinkling  stars  appear.  Twilight  has 
given  place  to  the  night,  whose  coming  it 
ever  forecasts. 

"Mister !  Mister !"  The  words  cause  the 
man  to  break  forcibly  away  from  his  rev- 
erie, and  he  sees  a  messenger  standing  be- 
fore him. 

"Are  you  Edward  S.  Hillmann?" 
"Yes,"  he  answers,  taking  the  message 
the  boy  tenders.    Entering  the  dimly-lighted 
hallway,  he  turns  up  the  gas,  opens  the  tele- 
gram, and  reads: 

"Edward  S.  Hillmann — Your  presence  at  con- 
vention imperative.  You  may  be  nominee.  Come 
at  once. 

McDowell,  Chairman." 

Hastily  writing  an  affirmative  reply,  he 
passes  back  to  the  piazza,  and  hands  it  to 
the  messenger,  who  immediately  disappears 
in  the  gloom  of  the  tree-lined  driveway. 

O,  that  it  might  be  true  that  the  great 
honor  he  had  expected  to  work  for  upon 
the  convention  floor  would  now  come  to 
him  as  an  unsought  reward  for  his  years  of 
labor  and  sacrifice,  and  that  upon  the  eve 

64 


After  Many  Years 

of  victory !  With  this  thought  in  his  mind 
Hillmann  hastly  prepares  for  his  entrance 
upon  the  scene  of  action.  All  lassitude  and 
weakness  have  passed  from  him,  and  in  the 
shortest  possible  space  of  time  he  is  speed- 
ing over  the  rails  toward  the  State  capital. 

The  train  draws  up  at  the  depot,  and  Ed- 
ward S.  Hillmann,  genial  politician,  steps 
out  of  the  smoking-coach  and  into  a  cab 
that  has  been  sent  for  his  use.  The  sun, 
four  hours  high,  sheds  a  glorious  warmth 
through  the  cab's  open  window,  bathing  the 
prospective  candidate  in  a  glow  which 
seems  to  him  a  presage  of  success. 

A  delegation  of  Hillmann's  political 
friends  stands  near  the  curb  in  front  of  the 
convention  building  awaiting  his  coming. 
He  is  conducted,  at  his  request,  by  way  of 
a  side  entrance  to  a  room  back  of  the  plat- 
form. The  chairman  welcomes  him  almost 
before  he  has  time  to  enter  the  room.  Their 
hands  meet  in  a  long,  strong  clasp  of  friend- 
ship. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Ed;  your 're  just  in 
time.  Nominations  come  off  soon.  I  've 
saved  you  a  seat  on  the  platform ;  so  come 
on."  65 


After  Many  Years 

"No,  Will;  if  it's  all  the  same  to  you, 
I  'd  rather  rest  here  a  few  minutes.  I  've 
not  yet  gotten  back  my  full  health,  and  my 
long  ride  has  tired  me." 

A  few  moments  are  spent  in  conversing 
about  minor  matters,  then  Chairman  Mc- 
Dowell goes  upon  the  platform  to  attend 
to  the  manifold  duties  of  his  office,  leaving 
Hillmann  to  follow  at  his  pleasure. 

The  long  ride  has  made  the  man  tired, 
indeed,  and  forgetting  the  high  honors 
which  may  be  in  store  for  him,  he  falls 
asleep.  An  hour  passing  finds  him  still 
sleeping  soundly,  but  the  awakening  time  is 
near;  for  in  the  auditorium  the  people  are 
calling,  "Hillmann!  Hillmann!" 

McDowell  himself  passes  into  the  ante- 
room and  awakens  the  sleeper. 

"Man!  Man!"  he  whispers,  as  Hillmann 
rubs  his  heavy  eyelids,  "you  are  the  man 
of  the  hour.  Come,  the  people  call  for  their 
candidate." 

As  one  in  a  dream,  Hillmann  follows  the 
chairman  to  the  platform.  He  scarcely 
hears  the  brief,  well-chosen  remarks  of  in- 
troduction, nor  yet  the  cheering  which  fol- 

66 


After  Many  Years 

lows  as  he  takes  his  stand  before  the  vast 
audience. 

What  is  it  that  these  people  expect  of 
him,  that  their  eyes  need  be  fastened  so 
steadily  upon  him?  Then,  as  a  realization 
of  the  meaning  of  it  all  comes  to  him,  he 
trembles,  and  an  overwhelming  sense  of  his 
utter  unworthiness.of  this  great  honor  ren- 
ders him  speechless.  He  has  gained  fame 
as  a  fluent  talker,  but  now  he  strives  ear- 
nestly to  grasp  from  the  unwonted  empti- 
ness of  his  mind  a  few  appropriate  words 
to  say,  and  cannot. 

The  people,  however,  note  neither  the 
trembling  nor  the  struggle;  they  only  see 
the  man  who  is  to  lead  their  party  to  vic- 
tory, and  they  rise  to  their  feet,  cheering 
vociferously  and  waving  hats  and  handker- 
chiefs. 

Hillmann  smiles  and  bows  his  head  in 
appreciation.  His  heart  is  palpitating 
loudly,  and  he  blushes  for  fear  that  those 
sitting  near  may  hear  it. 

Eight  thousand  eyes  are  upon  him,  eight 
thousand  ears  are  alert  to  hear  every  word 
he  may  utter.  He  gazes  vacantly  at  this 

67 


After  Many  Years 

great  sea  of  humanity,  and  his  heart,  still 
beating  like  a  mighty  trip-hammer,  seems 
to  come  up  into  his  throat,  choking  him  un- 
til his  breath  comes  only  in  long-drawn 
gasps.  He  feels  that  he  can  never  speak, 
and  yet  he  dares  not  fail.  For  a  few  mo- 
ments his  eyes  roam  aimlessly  about,  pass- 
ing and  repassing  the  numerous  eyes  before 
him,  then  a  particular  pair  of  eyes  attracts 
him — and  he  is  looking  up  into  old  familiar 
depths  of  the  long  ago. 

"My  God!"  he  mutters  beneath  his 
breath,  "it  is  Marie,  Marie." 

This  sudden  sight  of  the  woman  he  has 
loved — yes,  and  still  loves — looking  down 
as  she  is  from  the  front  tier  of  seats  in  the 
balcony  into  his  face,  seems  to  add  the  fin- 
ishing touch  to  his  helplessness.  In  an  in- 
stant, however,  Marie  turns  her  head,  and 
as  she  does  so  Hillmann  thinks  he  sees  a 
tear  glistening  upon  her  dark  lashes.  The 
tear  appears  to  be  just  what  he  needs,  for 
as  the  people  are  beginning  to  wonder  at 
his  silence,  he  speaks. 

For  fully  an  hour  he  talks,  encouraging 
his  comrades  to  buckle  tighter  their  armor 

68 


After  Many  Years 

and  go  into  the  campaign  to  win.  From 
desultory  remarks  he  advances  into  flights 
of  oratory  which  hold  his  hearers  spell- 
bound as  he  moves  on  and  on  until  he 
reaches  a  powerful  climax.  Then  the 
crowd  goes  wild,  and  people  rush  pellmell 
to  the  platform  to  grasp  the  hand  of  this 
modern  Cincinnatus,  this  man  who  has  been 
called  from  the  ranks  to  be  their  leader. 

But  Hillmann  cares  not  at  all  for  this 
applause  and  these  handshakings.  His 
thoughts  are  love-songs  to  the  woman  who 
inspired  his  speech,  alternating  with  vows 
that  he  will  find  her  and  claim  her  as  his 
own. 

The  remainder  of  the  day  is  spent  among 
political  friends  and  the  evening  is  devoted 
to  a  great  banquet,  but  when  the  next  morn- 
ing is  ushered  in  Hillmann  begins  his 
search.  The  directory  fails  to  disclose  any 
Miss  Marie  among  the  city's  Ayers'  so  he  is 
compelled  to  turn  to  very  uncertain  and 
tedious  ways.  Friend  after  friend  he  calls 
aside,  questioning  each  more  skillfully  than 
a  tactful  woman  could,  naming  and  describ- 
ing the  woman  in  so  casual  a  way  that  not 

69 


After  Many  Years 

one  of  them  dreams  that  a  favorable  answer 
would  mean  more  to  the  questioner  than  the 
satisfaction  of  a  passing  curiosity.  Just  as 
he  is  beginning  to  fear  that  a  house  to 
house  canvass  of  the  city  will  be  necessary 
his  inquiries  are  successful.  A  friend, 
recognizing  the  description  as  fitting  a 
woman  he  has  seen  upon  the  piazza  of  a 
certain  house,  gives  him  the  proper  direc- 
tions. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  Hillmann  wends 
his  way  toward  the  house  where  dwells  his 
beloved.  His  nerves  seem  drawn  tense  and 
his  heart  is  filled  with  pleasant  anticipations. 
Can  it  be  possible  that  just  as  he  is  about  to 
become  the  State  executive  he  is  to  be 
blessed  with  the  greater  joy  of  love's  re- 
turn? Verily,  God's  favors  come  in  show- 
ers. 

Hillmann  reaches  the  house,  ascends  the 
steps  leading  to  the  veranda  and  presses  the 
button  of  the  electric  bell.  The  door  is 
opened  by  an  elderly  woman,  who  ushers 
him  into  the  drawing  room.  Handing  the 
woman  his  card  he  asks  her  to  take  it  to  her 
mistress. 

70 


After  Many  Years 

As  the  moments  pass  Hillmann  begins  to 
wonder  if  Marie  really  lives  here.  Suppose 
his  friend  has  been  mistaken  or  he  has  mis- 
taken his  friend's  directions;  what  excuse 
can  he  give  for  this  intrusion?  He  hears 
the  rustle  of  skirts  upon  the  carpet  and  he 
sees  a  woman  coming  toward  him.  There 
has  been  no  mistake,  for  he  is  looking  into 
those  eyes  which  he  saw  yesterday  for  the 
first  time  since  the  happy  days  of  the  long 
ago. 

For  a  moment  the  two  stand  silent.  Then 
Hillmann  springs  forward  with  arms  out- 
stretched and  clasps  the  woman  in  a  pas- 
sionate embrace.  Marie  does  not  resist. 
She  clings  to  him,  her  warm  breath  fanning 
his  flushed  cheeks,  her  great  eyes  looking  up 
into  his,  telling  over  and  over  the  old,  old 
story — the  sweetest  story  ever  told.  Ah, 
this  is  happiness  of  which  the  man  has  never 
dreamed.  Politics  and  political  ways  are 
nothing ;  fame  and  power  are  trivial  things. 
Love  only  is  man's  highest  destiny.  Love 
is  life. 

But  belated  happiness  sometimes  strikes 
a  discordant  note.  Suddenly  Marie's  face 

71 


After  Many  Years 

grows  livid  with  shame.  Springing  from 
the  arms  which  hold  her  in  so  fond  an  em- 
brace, she  drops  into  a  chair,  buries  her  face 
in  her  hands  and  sobs  bitterly. 

Unable  to  comprehend  the  meaning  of 
these  actions,  though  a  vague  sense  of  fail- 
ure has  come  upon  him,  Hillmann  bends 
over  her  and  implores  her  to  tell  him  what 
is  wrong.  Marie  does  not  answer,  only 
sobs  the  more.  He  tries  to  take  her  hand, 
but  she  snatches  it  from  him.  Then  he 
presses  his  lips  against  her  hair,  and  the 
woman  springs  to  her  feet  and  in  a  voice 
filled  with  the  agony  of  the  mystery  of  pain 
she  cries: 

"Edward,  my  love, — God,  forgive  for 
such  words — why  have  you  come  to  tempt 
me?"  Then  pointing  to  a  portrait  of  a 
man  hanging  upon  the  wall,  she  resumes,  in 
the  same  voice,  "That  is  my  husband.  Do 
you  understand  me,  Edward?  My  hus- 
band." 

Hillmann's  face  takes  on  the  pallor  of  her 
own,  and  noting  this  the  woman  continues : 
"Do  n't  look  that  way,  Edward.  God  knows 
how  I  loved  you;  how  I  waited  for  you — 

72 


After  Many  Years 

waited,  and  wept  and  prayed  that  you  might 
return.  When  I  was  compelled  to  give  up 
all  hope  I  tried  to  forget,  and  when  this  man 
came  I  listened  to  him  and  thought  I  had 
forgotten.  How  I  have  suffered !" 

Hillmann's  mind  is  in  an  uproar  and  the 
terrible  meaning  of  her  words  overwhelms 
him.  He  is  drinking  wormwood — a  potion 
more  bitter  than  death.  His  mind  burns  in 
the  awful  caldron  of  an  earthly  hell,  and  he 
paces  up  and  down  the  room,  faster  and 
faster  until  it  seems  that  he  can  never  stop. 
Surely  he  is  going  mad.  He  cares  not ;  in- 
deed, he  longs  for  a  madness  that  forgets. 
"Too  late!  Too  late!"  in  letters  of  fire 
these  words  stand  out  before  his  mental 
eye,  and  he  gnashes  his  teeth,  muttering  be- 
neath his  breath,  "I  have  been  a  fool,  a  mis- 
erable idiot.  She  is  not  to  blame." 

"Go,"  Marie  is  pleading  all  the  while, 
"Go,  forget  me  and  be  a  man.  Your  fellow- 
men  are  looking  to  you  for  leadership,  and 
you  must  not,  dare  not  fail  them." 

Hillmann  does  not  heed  her,  in  fact  he 
scarcely  hears  what  she  is  saying,  and  he 
continues  to  walk  and  mutter,  mutter  and 

73 


After  Many  Years 

walk.  Then  the  power  of  his  love  over- 
comes every  consideration  of  manhood  and 
honor.  He  comes  to  a  standstill  just  before 
her  and  fiercely  grasps  her  delicate  wrists. 

"Come,"  he  cries  hoarsely,  "what  is  your 
husband  to  me,  or  to  you  ?  I  love  you ;  you 
love  me.  Nothing  else  matters.  Come!" 

Marie's  answer  comes  soft  and  tremulous, 
"Edward,  come  with  me." 

He  follows  her  from  the  room  into  the 
hall  and  up  a  stairway,  his  fierceness  melt- 
ing away  in  shame  at  his  every  step.  Open- 
ing a  door  near  the  head  of  the  stairs,  the 
woman  steps  aside  and  Hillmann  enters. 
He  has  been  ushered  into  a  bedroom,  and 
beside  the  bed  he  sees  a  cradle  and  a  baby 
sleeping  soundly  within  its  quilted  softness. 

"Edward,"  the  woman's  voice  is  choked 
with  tears,  "do  you  ask  me  to  leave  my 
child?" 

Without  a  word  Hillmann  turns  and 
walks  from  the  room  and  down  the  stairs. 
Mechanically  taking  his  hat  from  the  rack 
he  passes  out  of  the  house.  His  future,  his 
impaired  health,  his  candidacy — everything 
is  forgotten  save  the  woman,  as  he  trudges 

74 


After  Many  Years 

on  and  ever  on.  The  city  is  left  behind  and 
he  walks  along  a  suburban  highway.  He 
feels  tired  and  sits  upon  a  large  rock  by  the 
roadside  to  rest.  Looking  at  his  watch  he 
sees  that  it  is  five  o'clock.  He  has  walked 
continually  for  nearly  three  hours.  Taking 
a  handkerchief  from  his  pocket  he  wipes 
away  the  great  drops  of  perspiration  gath- 
ered upon  his  forehead.  In  returning  the 
cloth  to  his  pocket  he  notices  that  he  has 
•dropped  a  note.  Picking  it  up  he  opens  it 
and  reads : 

"Executive  meeting  to-night  to  outline 
the  coming  campaign.  Your  presence  de- 
sired, C Hotel  parlors  at  eight  o'clock. 

"W.  J.  McDowell,  Chairman." 

What  does  it  all  mean?  The  words  of 
the  note  pass  and  repass  through  his  brain 
in  a  meaningless  melange.  He  tries  to 
grasp  some  import  from  it  all,  but  fails  and 
casts  the  note  aside. 

Then  a  sense  of  rest,  such  a  feeling  of 
content  and  ecstasy  as  he  has  never  known 
before,  comes  to  him,  and  he  rises  to  go 
back — he  knows  not  where.  He  can  not 
walk,  but  wabbles  like  a  man  under  the 

75 


After  Many  Years 

power  of  Bacchus  and  finally  falls  to  the 
grassy  ground  by  the  side  of  the  road. 
Still  he  is  happy.  A  joy  surges  over  him 
like  a  beautiful  tidal  wave  upon  a  sandy 
beach.  In  the  distance  a  sweet  feminine 
voice  is  singing  a  love  lyric.  From  a  tree 
a  thrush  trills  a  merry  greeting  to  his 
mate,  who  promptly  answers  from  a  shrub 
near  by. 

The  sun,  like  a  blazing  beacon,  lies  close 
to  the  horizon  for  a  time,  then  hides  itself 
behind  the  distant  hills.  The  twilight 
comes  on  apace.  Hillmann  smiles.  The 
woman  is  coming — she  must  come.  He 
plucks  a  wild  rose  growing  near  and  waits. 
She  comes  and  sits  by  his  side.  Soft,  warm 
hands  caress  his  forehead;  soft,  red  lips 
press  upon  his  own. 

"My  love,  my  love,"  he  whispers  softly, 
"we  will  flee,  we  will  flee,  we  will  flee — " 


From  "The  C Press-Post :" 

"Last  evening  about  seven  o'clock  the 

Honorable  Edward  S.  Hillmann,  the 

candidate  for  Governor,  was  found  near  the 

76 


After  Many  Years 

pike  north  of  the  city,  muttering  inco- 
herently and  plucking  wildly  at  the  grass 
*  *  *  His  mental  powers  are  gone,  and 
recovery  is  doubtful.  *  *  *" 


77 


The  Monster 

His  heart  beat  with  the  lilt  of  transcend- 
ent joy  that  came  with  the  consciousness 
of  the  greater  happiness.  Ever  battling 
with  the  obstacles  common  in  the  pathway 
of  the  literary  artist,  he  had  tasted  of  the 
wholesome  things  of  life  but  lightly,  and 
now  he  was  lifted  to  ,the  highest  pinnacle  of 
happiness.  His  den  was  a  heaven  as  he  sat 
resting  in  his  easy  chair,  thinking  of  the 
abundant  bkssings  of  these  days.  His 
heart  hummed  a  lyric  to  her  who  had 
given  him  her  love  and  in  the  giving  had 
brought  this  joy  of  life. 

All  day  literary  friends  and  other  ac- 
quaintances had  come  and  gone,  each  with 
pleasing  words  of  congratulation  upon  the 
announcement  of  his  approaching  marriage 
to  a  society  leader  of  the  city.  Now,  for  a 
few  minutes,  at  the  day's  farewell,  he  was 
alone,  rapturously  lost  in  the  wonderland 
of  his  dreams.  Soon,  very  soon  would  be 

79 


The  Monster 

the  culmination,  the  realization  of  his 
visions  of  abiding  love — for  in  four  and 
twenty  days  he  was  to  wed  the  fair  Hilda, 
goddess  of  his  soul. 

But  he  had  forgotten.  The  Monster 
loomed  up  before  him  in  all  its  titanic  ter- 
ribleness — the  Monster  that  dogged  his 
footsteps  by  day  and  haunted  his  bedcham- 
ber by  night.  In  other  days,  when  he  had 
thought  of  it  and  his  love  a  chilling  fear 
stole  over  him,  but  having  turned  a  deaf 
ear,  it  now  gave  him  little  trouble.  He 
argued  that  she  would  never  know,  never 
see  the  skeleton  which  was  a  part  of  his  life. 
And  so  it  was,  lost  in  the  ecstasy  of  his  con- 
suming love,  he  ever  forgot.  But  as  the 
thought  came  at  this  time  he  trembled  and 
cried  out  bitterly  against  his  heritage. 
Then  with  a  laugh  he  thrust  the  image  of 
the  Monster  from  his  mind. 

Finally  he  arose,  entered  his  dressing 
room  and  soon  after  passed  into  the  street. 
He  was  going  to  see  Hilda,  and  together 
they  would  plan  the  future. 

An  hour  later  with  the  full  moon  lighting 
his  way  the  man  hurried  up  the  tree-fringed 

80 


The  Monster 

walk  to  the  great  veranda.  Hilda  herself 
opened  the  door,  and  he  stepped  across  the 
threshold. 

"Everett,  you  are  late!  What  is  the 
cause  ?" 

"Nothing,  Hilda,  save  that  I  have 
dreamed  of  you  overmuch  to-day." 

The  girl  moved  closer  and  as  the  light 
from  the  chandelier  fell  across  their  faces 
each  gazed  into  the  eyes  of  the  other. 
There  was  a  silence  fraught  with  many 
sweet  thoughts,  but  no  words  gave  them 
utterance.  He  smiled  and  grasped  her 
hand.  She  appeared  more  of  a  queen  to- 
night than  ever  before,  a  goddess  to  be 
loved  and  cherished  forever.  What  a 
happy  mortal  he  was,  blessed  with  such  a 
love ! 

The  evening  passed  away  most  pleas- 
antly. Many  were  their  hopes,  many  were 
their  plans.  Then  the  topic  of  conversation 
turned  to  himself  and  his  work. 

Like  the  cleaving  of  the  heavens  by  the 
lightning's  flash,  suddenly  and  without 
warning,  came  the  terrible  thought  of  the 
Monster.  It  filled  his  mind ;  it  crushed  him 

6  8l 


The  Monster 

to  the  earth.  The  conversation  lulled  and 
became  desultory. 

Should  he  divulge  his  secret,  or  should 
he  marry  her  and  keep  silent?  At  the 
former  idea  his  mind  revolted,  and  as  to  the 
latter — God!  what  could  he  do?  Should 
he  deceive  her  ?  No,  his  love  was  too  pure, 
too  sincere  for  deceit,  and  yet  he  dare  not 
disclose  the  curse  of  his  life.  Maddened, 
he  arose  and  paced  the  room. 

"What  troubles  you,  Everett?"  she  ques- 
tioned abruptly  in  a  constrained  voice,  her 
eyes  fused  with  anxiety. 

"It's  too  awful!  I — I — "  and  he  was 
silent. 

"What  is  it  ?  Tell  me,"  came  the  impera- 
tive words. 

"Don't,  girl.  I  can't,  I  can't!"  He 
ceased  his  pacing  to  and  fro,  and  stood  be- 
fore her. 

"You  must  tell  me,  Everett.  Be  calm 
and  explain.  Between  you  and  me  there 
can  be  no  secrets."  She  endeavored  to  re- 
main calm,  but  fear  made  the  words  falter 
and  tremble  as  she  spoke. 

"I  love  you,  Hilda ;  love  you  above  every- 

82 


The  Monster 

thing  else  this  world  or  the  next  can  give ; 
yet  I  can  not,  O !  I  dare  not  tell  you  of  this 
curse.  It  is  crushing  me,  and  I  can  not  for- 
ever blight  your  life — I  love  you  too  much 
for  that.  Forgive  me,  but  it  is  best  that 
we — that  I — "  The  tongue  ceased  in  the 
performance  of  its  function  and  the  man 
stood  mute,  his  face  haggard  and  his  eyes 
lusterless  with  a  despairing  plea. 

The  girl  breathed  hard.  A  flame  lit  up 
her  cheeks  and  then  was  extinguished,  leav- 
ing them  pale  and  drawn.  She  leaned  for- 
ward. 

"Everett!  Everett!"  she  moaned,  her 
chin  quivering. 

He  attempted  to  speak,  tried  to  loose  his 
tongue  that  he  might  better  explain;  but 
only  one  word,  low  and  tremulous,  fell  from 
his  lips. 

"Hilda !" 

But  she  was  sobbing  and  heard  him  not. 
Turning  he  staggered  into  the  hallway  and 
out  into  the  avenue. 

The  woman  and  the  world  would  never 
know  that  through  his  veins  coursed  the 
blood  of  the  Ethiopian. 

7  83 


1  The  Port  of  the  Un- 
expected" 

MANY  minutes  he  had  watched  the  girl  with 
approval  and  with  pleasure.  Having  laid 
the  open  magazine,  which  she  had  been 
reading,  down  upon  the  bench  by  her  side, 
she  looked  out  over  the  expanse  of  water  to 
the  steep,  wooded  hills  of  the  Little  Moun- 
tain State.  Wakefield  having  noted  her 
beauty,  moved  away  to  the  opposite  side  of 
the  deck,  only  to  return  a  few  minutes  later. 
Perhaps  it  was  chance,  maybe  it  was 
providence ;  but  just  then  a  stronger  breeze 
than  was  wont  to  stir  swept  across  the  deck 
of  the  little  steamer  which  was  moving 
lustily  down  the  Ohio,  and  tossed  the  maga- 
zine from  its  resting  place  to  the  deck  at 
Wakefield's  feet.  Leaving  his  place,  where 
he  sat  upon  the  deck-railing,  he  picked  it 
up — and  casually  glancing  at  the  open  page, 
noticed  the  title  of  the  story.  His  face 
flushed  and  he  returned  the  magazine  with- 
out daring  to  face  the  owner  squarely,  fear- 

8s 


The  Port  of  the  Unexpected 

ing  lest  he  might  divulge  his  secret  that 
he — well,  he  did  n't  want  the  girl  to  know. 
After  acknowledging  her  thanks  he  ven- 
tured a  question: 

"And  you  prefer  viewing  the  scenery 
along  the  river's  borders  to  reading?" 

She  turned  her  eyes  upon  him.  Wake- 
field's  eyes  met  hers,  and  for  an  instant  he 
was  enthralled,  enraptured,  gazing  as  he 
was  into  the  depths  of  great  limpid  wells 
of  deep  blue  that  held  those  enslaved  who 
dared  look  therein. 

"I  can  hardly  say,  but,  of  course,  it  de- 
pends on  the  scenery  and  on  that  which  I  'm 
reading,"  she  answered  in  even  tones,  allow- 
ing her  gaze  to  wander  to  the  West  Vir- 
ginia shore. 

"I  would  rather  have  a  mixture  of  the 
two,"  he  volunteered,  continuing  to  admire 
the  large  eyes,  the  resolute  chin,  the  buoy- 
ant countenance,  and  the  great  mass  of  sun- 
wove  hair  arranged  so  bewitchingly  upon 
her  head. 

Still  reticent,  the  girl  hesitated,  then  turn- 
ing again  to  the  young  man,  she  asked : 

"What  class  of  reading  do  you  enjoy?" 

86 


The  Port  of  the  Unexpected 

"Strange  to  say,  I  favor  the  tragic  and 
those  stories  which  deal  with  real  life — life 
that  appeals  to  one's  whole  being,  that  stirs 
and  thrills  one  to  the  very  finger  tips." 

"I,  too,  enjoy  such  stories.  I  have  just 
now  finished  such  a  one  in  this  magazine," 
she  remarked,  tendering  the  copy  to  Wake- 
field,  who  had  left  the  place  on  the  railing 
and  taken  a  deck-chair. 

"Have  you  read  this  story?"  he  ques- 
tioned, pointing  to  the  open  page. 

"Yes,"  she  hastened  to  reply  with  zest, 
"I  have  read  'The  Port  of  the  Unexpected,' 
and  think  it  by  far  the  best  story  in  the  Au- 
gust number.  Indeed,  it  has  been  a  long 
time  since  I  have  read  one  so  interesting. 
The  plot  is  simple  and  yet  so  original.  It 's 
certainly  a  great  story." 

"I  'm  glad  you  enjoyed  it,"  Wakefield  re- 
marked, a  tremor  of  excitement  in  his  voice 
and  a  flush  mantling  his  face. 

The  girl  glanced  at  him  in  sudden  won- 
der. Conscious  of  his  blunder,  he  quickly 
added : 

"I  'm  acquainted  with  the  author." 

"Well,   you  are  very  fortunate.     I   can 

87 


The  Port  of  the  Unexpected 

but  wish  that  I  were  permitted  the  privilege 
of  knowing  such  a  delightful  man  as  he 
must  be." 

"He  is  an  enterprising  lawyer  of  my 
home  city  in  Ohio.  At  odd  times,  when  at 
leisure,  he  does  some  literary  work,"  he  con- 
tinued recklessly,  intoxicated  with  the  girl's 
words  of  commendation. 

The  conversation  between  the  man  and 
the  girl  continued  for  over  an  hour,  during 
which  time  the  various  phases  of  literary 
work  were  discussed,  and  their  kindred  in- 
terests in  the  world  of  literature  drew  them 
more  and  more  into  a  friendly  relationship. 
Though  never  before  had  they  met,  one 
would  have  taken  them  for  old  acquaint- 
ances, so  amiable  and  unabashed  was  their 
conversation. 

Then  came  a  pause  in  the  pleasant  chit- 
chat. The  girl  stirred  slightly  and  looked 
about  as  if  searching  for  something.  Being 
unsuccessful,  she  arose  and  began  to  search 
in  earnest. 

"Have  you  lost  something?"  Wakefield 
inquired,  rising. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  a  frightened  ex- 


The  Port  of  the  Unexpected 

pression   upon   her   face.      "I  've   lost   my 


purse 


Without  a  word,  he  began  looking  about 
where  they  had  been  sitting.  Soon  others 
came  up  and  lent  their  assistance.  On  all 
sides  they  searched  most  carefully,  but  all 
effort  was  futile — the  purse  could  not  be 
found.  The  captain  of  the  steamer,  while 
crossing  the  deck,  noticing  the  crowd,  came 
near  and,  after  inquiry,  gave  his  attention 
to  the  search.  Wakefield,  standing  beside 
the  girl,  still  hopeful  of  recovering  the  lost, 
did  not  look  up  until  the  officer  was  very 
close,  then  he  straightened  up. 

He  was  looking  into  the  captain's  face. 
An  instant  there  was  utter  silence — a  quiet 
that  boded  no  good.  Smiling,  Wakefield 
spoke  and  thrust  forward  his  hand ;  for  be- 
fore him  stood  an  old  acquaintance,  the 
bully  of  the  little  country  school  back  in 
Ohio  some  ten  years  since.  The  captain 
did  not  smile  nor  notice  the  hand  tendered 
to  clasp  his  own.  Instead  a  dark  scowl  suf- 
fused his  visage  and  he  muttered  something 
beneath  his  breath.  With  a  short  step  he 
was  close  to  Wakefield. 


The  Port  of  the  Unexpected 

"You!  you  here  in  this  mix-up?"  he 
broke  forth  in  such  arrogant,  insinuating 
tones  that  the  spectators  fell  back  to  look 
on  in  amazement. 

Taken  unawares,  Wakefield  was  so  dum- 
founded  at  the  sudden  outbreak  that  he 
could  only  answer  in  the  affirmative. 

"Why,  sir,  are  you  here?  Why  are  you 
taking  such  an  interest  in  this  girl's  pocket- 
book."  The  words  were  savage,  harsh, 
threatening. 

"Why  am  I  here !  It 's  very  evident, 
Captain  Rinshaw,  that  I  'm  going  down  the 
river  on  your  steamer,  and  I  'm  searching 
for  the  young  woman's  purse,  because  it 's 
only  right  that  I  should  do  so." 

The  answer  seemed  only  to  provoke  the 
other's  wrath,  and  again  he  broke  forth : 

"You  're  up  to  your  old  tricks  now,  eh  ? 
I  know  you  too  well !"  Then  he  halted  that 
he  might  see  how  those  standing  about  were 
taking  the  proceedings. 

The  accused  helplessly  turned  his  eyes  to- 
ward the  girl.  Gazing  into  her  face  he 
saw  the  friendly  expression  of  the  eyes  fade, 
fade  until  they  emitted  only  coldness  and 

90 


The  Port  of  the  Unexpected 

scorn.  From  the  spectators  he  received 
suspicious  glances.  His  heart  sank  within 
him  as  he  once  more  turned  to  the  captain, 
and  noting  the  look  of  hatred  upon  his  ac- 
cuser's face  remembrance  brought  the  rea- 
son for  the  attack.  Rinshaw  in  the  old 
days  had  held  a  grudge  against  him,  and  he 
still  harbored  it,  nursed  it,  and  now  the  thing 
crazed  him.  He  was  having  his  revenge. 

"Are  you  sure  you  have  n't  got  that 
pocketbook?"  roared  the  captain,  in  his 
coarse,  mocking  way. 

A  flush  of  anger  mounted  Wakefield's 
cheeks  and  he  raised  his  arm,  but  remem- 
bering that  any  show  of  anger  on  his  part 
would  add  tenfold  to  the  suspicion  of  the 
onlookers,  he  let  his  arm  fall  to  his  side. 

"No,  I  have  n't  the  purse,"  he  answered 
in  firm,  tense  tones,  his  eyes  blazing  at  Rin- 
shaw. The  captain  winced  under  the  gaze 
and  his  eyes  fell. 

"Well— well,  we  '11  see  about  it."  With 
this  parting  shot  he  wheeled,  ran  up  the 
stairway  and  his  footfalls  could  be  heard  as 
he  crossed  the  upper  deck  to  the  pilot  house. 

Dazed,  overcome,  Wakefield  gazed  wildly 

91 


The  Port  of  the  Unexpected 

about  him,  hoping  for  some  sign  of  sym- 
pathy, but  there  was  none.  He  would 
speak,  would  try  to  explain ;  but  facing  the 
suspicious  glances  of  the  passengers  and  the 
look  of  scorn  from  the  girl  then  turning 
away,  accompanied  by  an  elderly  woman,  he 
was  speechless,  and  before  the  desired 
words  came  he  was  alone. 

Taking  a  deck-chair  near  to  the  railing, 
he  sat  down  and  gazing  sullenly  at  the  danc- 
ing ripples  upon  the  Ohio's  surface  and 
at  the  vista  of  valley  and  hill  reaching 
away  to  the  horizon,  he  perceived  not  the 
beauty  or  grandeur  of  either — his  thoughts 
were  centered  upon  other  things.  He 
wished  he  were  a  thousand  miles  away. 
Angry  at  himself  for  making  this  journey 
by  steamer  when  he  could  have  reached  his 
destination  by  rail  in  less  time,  and  remem- 
bering that  he  was  doing  so  merely  for  the 
pleasure  and  recreation  to  be  derived  there- 
from, he  cursed  his  folly.  Deep  within 
himself  the  terrible  accusation  ate  into  his 
soul  like  a  cauterizing  iron  into  quivering 
flesh.  Yet,  with  a  full  realization  of  his  in- 
nocence, he  was  not  blind  to  the  logic  of 

92 


The  Port  of  the  Unexpected 

the  charge — he  could  not  blame  his  fellow 
passengers  for  their  suspicions  nor  could 
he  censure  the  girl.  He  was  a  stranger  to 
them  all,  save  to  his  accuser,  and  he  alone 
understood  the  motive  of  the  captain's  per- 
secution. 

And  thinking  thus  he  smiled  a  scornful 
smile  of  indifference,  and  was  even  tempted 
to  laugh  at  the  absurdity  of  the  situation, 
that  he,  a  lawyer,  honored  and  respected, 
should  be  charged  with  stealing  a  young 
woman's  purse. 

The  Buckeye  moved  steadily  down  the 
river,  the  passengers  moved  about  more 
freely,  and  all  the  while  the  westering  sun 
crept  nearer  its  place  of  exit. 

Wakefield,  however,  gave  no  thought  to 
the  progress  of  the  steamer  nor  to  his  sur- 
roundings. He  could  think  only  of  the  ac- 
cusation and  the  girl — the  image  of  the  girl 
haunted  his  mind  continually.  Was  it  the 
bewitching  eyes  so  fearless  and  yet  so  child- 
like, or  was  it  the  pleasant  personality  ac- 
centuated by  her  beauty  that  caused  him  to 
muse  so  longingly  upon  the  companion  of 
an  hour  now  past?  He  had  never  thought 

93 


The  Port  of  the  Unexpected 

of  a  woman  so  before,  yet  somehow  her 
spirit  permeated  his  being.  But  she,  too, 
believed  him  guilty — even  scorned  him. 
Probably  she  would  never  know  of  his  in- 
nocence. As  this  thought  came,  he  was 
tempted  to  revolt  against  the  silence,  go  to 
the  captain,  settle  the  score,  and  make  him 
confess  his  rascality.  He  had  whipped  him 
in  the  old  days,  and  certainly  he  could  do  it 
again.  Then  his  better  manhood  took  pos- 
session and  he  despised  himself  for  coun- 
tenancing such  thoughts.  "Time,"  he  mut- 
tered under  his  breath,  "will  exonerate  me." 

And  yet — and  yet  he  hated  the  cloud  that 
hung  over  him.  Innocent  though  he  was, 
still  the  very  thought  that  perhaps  the 
months  and  years  might  intervene  before 
he  would  be  free  of  all  this  foul  calumny 
haunted  him.  Doubt,  ever  the  great, 
shadowy  skeleton  of  dying  hope,  stalked  in, 
and  as  the  minutes  slipped  by  he  wondered 
and  doubted,  doubted  and  wondered.  Then, 
finally,  with  a  mighty  effort  he  thrust  these 
gloomy  thoughts  from  his  mind. 

For  a  moment  he  turned  his  attention  to 
his  surroundings  and  saw  familiar  land- 

94 


The  Port  of  the  Unexpected 

scapes  on  both  sides  of  the  river.  He  was 
within  a  short  distance  of  his  landing  place. 

Some  one  approached.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  captain  coming  to  gloat  over  his  victory 
or  to  further  anger  his  victim.  Wakefield 
turned  with  a  black  look  upon  his  face,  but 
when  he  saw  who  stood  near,  the  scowl 
gave  place  to  a  look  of  wonder,  and  he 
moved  nervously  on  his  chair,  awaiting 
what  she  might  say. 

The  girl  at  first  was  startled,  but  when 
the  man's  frown  had  gone  she  moved  nearer 
and  sat  down.  Her  eyes,  now  grave, 
sought  his,  but  he  looked  beyond  her  at 
the  distant  shore,  scarcely  knowing  why  he 
did  so. 

"Can  you  ever  forgive  me?  Can  you 
ever  forget  that  I  caused  you  so  much 
pain — that  I  've  brought  all  this  upon 
you — "  her  voice  trailed  away  to  silence  and 
her  form  convulsed  slightly  as  if  she  would 
sob. 

He  was  now  watching  her  every  move 
and  hearing  her  every  word. 

She  continued:  "It  was  all  a  mistake — 
a  terrible  mistake,  and  I  'm  to  blame.  I 

95 


The  Port  of  the  Unexpected 

was  the  cause  of  the  people  aboard  sus- 
picioning  you  of — of  taking  my  purse.  O, 
it  was  terrible!  Thoughtlessly  I  had  left 
the  purse  in  our  stateroom,  and  mother  just 
found  it.  Can  you — can  you  ever  forgive 
this  mistake  ?" 

Her  eyes  were  pleading,  and  as  she 
leaned  forward,  wrapt  in  the  sincerity  of 
her  plea,  her  hand  lightly  touched  Wake- 
field's  sleeve. 

A  loud,  coarse  whistle  came  from  the 
steamer,  followed  by  another  and  still  an- 
other. The  man  straightened  up  and  for 
an  instant  looked  away  toward  the  Ohio 
shore.  Then  he  turned  to  the  girl,  her 
touch  still  thrilling  him  as  he  had  never  been 
thrilled  before  by  the  touch  of  a  woman's 
hand. 

"Forgive !  There  is  n't  anything  to  for- 
give. I  have  held  nothing  against  you ;  you 
were  not  to  blame.  The  incident  was  but 
a  false  play  of  fate.  Certain  that  you  know 
that  I  am  not  guilty,  I  am  happy." 

Her  words  came  with  eagerness:  "I  am 
glad  you  hold  nothing  against  me.  It  re- 
moves such  a  burden  from  my  mind.  I 
trust,  Mr. " 

96 


The  Port  of  the  Unexpected 

"Wakefield,"  he  interpolated,  "Sidney 
Wakefield." 

The  boat  neared  the  mooring  and  the 
usual  clamor  accompanying  the  making  of 
a  landing  was  borne  to  the  ears  of  the  pair. 
He  arose  from  his  chair. 

"Wakefield!"  came  from  the  girl  ex- 
citedly, her  cheeks  burning  with  timidity, 
"why,  you  are  the  author  of  'The  Port  of 
the  Unexpected,'  the  story  we  were  talking 
about.  Can  it  be  so?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered  simply.  "Here  is  my 
landing.  Good  bye." 

"O,  such  a  day  as  I  've  made  of  this !"  she 
murmured,  then  extended  her  hand.  "Good 
bye.  I  'm  sorry  I  caused  you  to  suffer  such 
humiliation — such  pain."  Then  she  looked 
straight  away  into  the  far  distance. 

Pressing  her  hand  gently,  Wakefield 
turned,  grasped  his  traveling  bag,  and 
rushed  down  the  stairway  and  over  the 
gangplank  to  the  wharfboat.  Briskly  he 
moved  up  the  bank.  Reaching  the  top,  he 
halted  to  give  the  steamer  a  last  look. 

In  the  light  where  the  rays  of  the  setting 
sun  fell  across  the  deck  stood  the  girl  lean- 

97 


The  Port  of  the  Unexpected 

ing  over  the  railing,  a  handkerchief  flutter- 
ing in  her  hand.  He  raised  his  hat,  and  as 
the  Buckeye  disappeared  around  the  bend 
the  flush  upon  his  cheeks,  dying  out,  gave 
place  to  a  serious  expression,  but  all  the 
while  his  heart  beat  joyously  with  the 
knowledge  of  a  secret. 


Q8 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


LD/URL 

JAN      8   1990 


50m-7,'69(N296s4) — C-120 


E          99.       M9H 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  097  809    6 


